A Major Wager
by Amymimi
Summary: Margaret's vulnerable state after the sudden death of her father leads to two very different men of the 4077th serving new capacities in her life.  Who will she ultimately choose? CM & HM. Last two chapters up Feb 15!
1. Delayed Mourning

**A Major Wager – Chapter 1**

**Synopsis:** Margaret's vulnerable state after the sudden death of her father leads to two very different men of the 4077th serving new capacities in her life. Who will she ultimately choose?

**Setting:** This story takes place about a month after the "Communication Breakdown" episode, one of my favorite episodes (I also enjoy "Mr. and Mrs. Who?" and "The Yalu Brick Road"). I have not seen every episode of M*A*S*H up to the "Communication Breakdown" episode, so hopefully that doesn't lead to the formation of any major plot holes along the way. If it does, please inform me! You will notice little snippets and recollections of episodes I _have_ seen, however, throughout this story.

**Warnings:** language, sex (though nothing explicit on either count)

**Rating:** T (just to be safe)

**Pairings:** CM, HM

**Disclaimer:** I do not own M*A*S*H or any of the characters in it. I'm making nothing from writing this work of fiction.

**Reviews:** Yes, please!

* * *

"Scalpel."

The lack of response was enough to drum up impatience in Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester III, his bloodied rubber glove extended towards the nurse at his side.

"Margaret."

The blonde standing next to the gurney flinched then, as if snapping out of a trance. Still she had not heeded his words. Her face was devoid of all emotion.

"Major, I am prone to believe if my patient were not in a coma, that he would kindly ask you to _snap out of it_ for his sake."

"Oh!" she suddenly blurted, startling Dr. B.J. Hunnicutt, who was positioned back to back with her, standing over yet another patient-laden gurney. Having sutured a rather nasty leg gash in his patient, he was free to turn around and address the zombie-like nurse.

"You're not yourself today, Margaret," the mustached surgeon said with a mixture of warmth and concern, "What's up?"

Just before she could open her mouth to speak, Winchester interrupted.

"Hunnicutt, I'd appreciate if you'd allow my nurse to do her job."

With an exasperated sigh, the blonde nurse returned her focus to the patient in front of her and glanced up at the tall balding surgeon beside her.

"What did you need again, Major?" she asked him, her tone cold. He rolled his eyes with disgust.

"A scalpel, for the second time," he replied dramatically.

Within a second, a scalpel was in his hands and he was able to continue the work removing shrapnel from the body of his patient.

* * *

The call for incoming wounded had woken the 4077th M.A.S.H. before dawn, causing the lot of surgeons, nurses and orderlies to scramble in the dark to pull on their fatigues. It was mid-winter as well, with disrobing even less pleasant in the frigid temperatures, though the tents blocked the bitter winds that swept through. The barrage of wounded had prevented the officers of the 4077th from doing much else other than preparing patients for surgery and murmuring tired hellos to each other.

The post had arrived at the same time as incoming wounded the day before, and so the doctors and nurses of the 4077th had had to wait until late in the evening before opening and reading their mail. No one had seen Major Margaret Houlihan since she'd assisted in the surgeries of a half dozen American soldiers caught in an ambush.

No one liked being awake at such an early hour, and most were cranky and irritated, and talked to their nurses and assistants with morning breath and gravelly voices. Houlihan was the head nurse of the 4077th, but today she was in a trance and was deaf to Winchester's instructions to her. Besides that, she had tied on his surgical gown rather haphazardly, which hung too loosely on his shoulders and very nearly fell off several times. All morning Winchester rolled his eyes, occasionally clearing his throat rather loudly to stir the nurse. Strangely enough, her usual spunkiness was absent and she did no more than obey his orders.

In his annoyance at the incompetence of his nurse, Winchester snapped rather viciously at Klinger while the company clerk passed through the O.R. with fresh linens.

"Is this some kind of cruel hoax?" Winchester commented, as Klinger handed him a sheet.

"What do you mean, Major?"

"My nurse is practically catatonic. You distributed linens to all other attending physicians before you opted to dispense them here, where they are clearly much needed. Am I the brunt of everyone's joke this morning?"

"I just handed 'em out as I walked in here, from right to left," Klinger explained with a shrug. "You're on the end."

"Ah," Charles replied, with a raise of the eyebrows. "Am I to believe you now capable of comprehending direction? It seems you learn new tricks to explicate each new act of neglect towards my person."

"Major, if you don't lay off our company clerk, I'll see to it that you work upstream of him," Potter remarked. Winchester turned his head to look towards the colonel, who was getting new gloves put on his hands.

"Pray tell, whatever do you mean, Colonel," Winchester replied, the irony heavy in his voice.

"I'll have you washing the linens he has to hand out. Think that'll improve efficiency?"

Charles fell silent, not willing to take on that unpleasant duty ever again. Potter noted his silence.

"That's what I thought. Now let him do his job and you do yours."

* * *

After the final patient had been moved to post-op and the dead were loaded into a truck in preparation for their flight back to the States, the doctors surveyed the operating room. Blood covered the cement floor, mixed in with tatters of batting and hair that had been removed for surgery prep. Winchester, Pierce and Hunnicutt removed their gloves and coats in the changing room and stood outside in the frigid morning, their breath emerging from their noses and mouths as steam. A light frost covered the ground and the edges of the tents, though snow was nowhere to be found. The morning sun's rays made the frost sparkle like crystals. Had it not been such a stressful morning, the surgeons might have noticed the beauty of their surroundings.

"I think a trained chimpanzee could have assisted me more effectively than Major Houlihan this morning," Winchester remarked, his face twisted into a grimace.

"You're lucky she didn't blow up on you, with all the huffing and pouting you did," Hunnicutt replied. "Didn't think it was possible to _hear_ an eyeroll until today."

"Did you not see her staring off into nothingness? She was wholly listless and indifferent, a mere shadow looming over the gurney. However, to have her simply acquiesce to my orders with no trace of defiance was a welcome change."

"Would it kill you to try a little tenderness?" Pierce remarked. "I think you're being too hard on her. Yesterday was a tough day and no one got enough sleep before the sequel this morning."

"Lest you forget, Pierce, I endured the trials and tribulations of yesterday's pandemonium and last night's sleeplessness and I'm no different than usual."

"Well, that's too bad," Pierce jeered.

"Something was definitely bothering Margaret," Hunnicutt added. "Maybe you should listen to the song sometime, Charles, learn about empathy."

Winchester made a face of confusion.

"'_Try A Little Tenderness_,'" Pierce explained. When the look of confusion continued to remain on Winchester's face, he shook his head. "'Course you've never heard of it. You only like music that's as far-removed from human emotion as possible."

Major Winchester had a retort in waiting, and proceeded with as snobbish an air as possible.

"You fail to comprehend, of course, that the music _I_ enjoy is the product of an orchestra of humanity, all playing individual parts that contribute synergistically to a more perfect harmony than each alone could create. Very much the way an operating room should run, I imagine—a feat today prevented by the ineptitude of Major Houlihan and her little reverie."

In his explanation of his music, Winchester did not see a change in the expressions on the face of Pierce and Hunnicutt. He was rather unprepared for what followed.

"For your information, my father died last week," Houlihan raged, her voice laced with bitterness. He looked down to find her standing right in front of him, having pushed between the lanky figures of Pierce and Hunnicutt. Her arms were crossed and face dark red. Charles blushed at her standing before him.

"I'm sorry," Hunnicutt replied, looking genuinely sad for her. He touched her on the shoulder as she stood in front of him, facing off with Winchester. She didn't bother to acknowledge the gesture, seemingly too fed up with Winchester to even think.

"If you need to talk about it, I'm always here," Pierce added. "Is he back in the States?"

"He was on holiday in Tokyo when it happened. It was a heart attack," she explained. "He's still there now—so apparently the services will be held there."

"Why the delayed mourning?" Winchester retorted after seemingly ignoring the kind comments by his comrades. Pierce and Hunnicutt held their breaths in unison. Winchester's phrase had a double entendre, of that they were certain.

"I received the letter about it _last night_," she growled at him. "How could you _be_ so insensitive?"

He did not so much as bat an eye.

"You realize, of course, that I was not aware of this most unpleasant news until a moment ago."

"Do you have nothing to say for yourself?"

Major Houlihan was becoming even more enraged, and Pierce and Hunnicutt were awed to see that Winchester pushed right through it, continuing to egg her on.

"Yes," he replied quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Yes, what?" she squawked.

"Yes, I have nothing to say."

"What?" She was shouting now, her voice shrill. Winchester could only shrug.

"Well, it _was_ the question you asked."

"You met my father! How can you have nothing to say about his death? "

Winchester cleared his throat, glancing down at the frost-covered ground. Howitzer Houlihan had been a pain in the neck during his short stay at the 4077th. He looked up to see Hawkeye and B.J. making faces of distaste—they too knew how irritating Margaret's father had been. This silent agreement gave him the confidence to continue speaking.

When the tall Major looked back at Margaret, his look was almost that of pity—but not quite.

"Ha," he spat dryly. "I'd make a dreadful eulogist. Your father was, for lack of a better word… insufferable."

Hawkeye and B.J. exchanged a look. Charles had really gone and done it now. It was almost enough to want to shut their eyes, but they were too interested in what was to come.

"How dare you?" Margaret roared. "He was a better man than you'll ever be!"

Another temper tantrum from Major Houlihan. At least Winchester could be assured that she was back to her old self and not the listless shadow of a nurse she had been this morning. Hunnicutt and Pierce leaned forward as subtly as possible. Would she storm off now, or try her best to get into Winchester's face? Of course that would be a lost cause. It would be hilarious to watch though.

Without saying another word, the nurse pulled back her arm and administered a resounding slap to Winchester's cheek.

* * *

**A/N:** I would love to have feedback on how you think it's going so far! Thank you for your interest!


	2. Conflict of Interest

A/N: Because of such a wonderful burst of interest and feedback so early on, I have decided to post the next chapter very quickly! It has some of the things in it that make it rated T so beware of some Major surprises ahead!

* * *

**CHAPTER 2 – CONFLICT OF INTEREST**

Charles stumbled sideways at the surprising force of the slap, his hand immediately shooting up towards his stinging cheek. As he rubbed his cheek, his eyes focused again on Margaret. Shock and surprise were evident on his face. He stared directly and unflinchingly at her.

"As much as you are wont to convince yourself that you were justified in doing that, I'm inclined to believe that you singled me out as your intended target of emotional catharsis as soon as you'd read the letter."

The blonde nurse remained silent in front of him, her arms again crossed across her chest. Winchester continued his explanation.

"Hence, I'm attributing this physical lashing-out to be the culmination of the pent-up anger you feel towards your father, thereby rendering me blameless."

Winchester looked then at the slowly shaking heads of Hunnicutt and Pierce, who stood with arms tightly crossed, awaiting the barb that would be thrown next by Houlihan.

It was a physical barb.

While Winchester's attention was momentarily diverted, Houlihan landed another slap, this one twice as hard, to his other cheek. He staggered a step, tears involuntarily welling up in one eye. A strange twinge in his stomach made him blink with confusion, a tear running down his reddened cheek. His mouth hung open in utter shock.

Quickly Winchester raised a hand to his face, vigorously rubbing the traitorous eye that dared shed a tear. He found himself unable to speak, and could only gawk down at the surprisingly strong woman in front of him.

"Pierce, Hunnicutt, can you go away?" Margaret asked forcefully. "I have some _things_ to discuss with Major Winchester."

The two men hesitated before doing anything. They had wanted to see what the nurse would do to their arrogant roommate. She had already slapped him twice, and they'd even seen a tear run down his cheek. Yeah, this was getting interesting. Winchester, on the other hand, swallowed hard, the odd feeling in his stomach making an appearance once again.

"Please," she added firmly yet earnestly. "This is between him and me."

"Don't forget your father," Winchester murmured. At the sight of her raising her arm again, he flinched away, looking ridiculously sheepish as he shielded himself with outturned palms.

* * *

Major Winchester watched Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt slink off disappointedly towards the mess tent. A time check was in order, and so he lifted up his sleeve and glanced at his wristwatch. It was breakfast time. Ah yes; when not powdered, what passed as eggs at the 4077th was a rubbery concoction that not even a dog could chew up and swallow in its entirety. Even_ if_ Major Houlihan had not so brashly interrupted his day, he would have skipped such a meal in favor of some well-needed sleep.

As Winchester slid his sleeve back down over his wristwatch, he could feel Margaret's eyes burning into his skin. It was utterly unnerving to be looked at that way without a word being said.

When she still had not said another word, he began to turn away from her in the direction of the Swamp. He felt a hand clamp onto the back of his shirt and squeeze, some of the flesh of his back involved with the process. With a sound of displeasure, he spun back round to look at the offender.

"Major," he spat irritably, standing at his full height in front of the woman, "I trust that you've now depleted your anger and can go about the remainder of your day like a rational person. I will do you the one-time favor of overlooking your momentary lapse in judgment in light of the extenuating circumstances."

Charles's cheeks were still crimson red, the outlines of a handprint able to be seen on both sides of his face. Thankfully for him, his rubbing had allowed for the redness to spread into something vaguely less obvious, and yet it was clear what had occurred.

"Oh, I'm not done with you yet," Margaret snarled, the volume of her voice low but threatening. She had set her jaw in a rather cruel grimace and glared up at him with raw animosity.

"Surely you jest," Winchester muttered, an uncomfortable chuckle accompanying his reply. He thrust his hands into his pockets, awaiting her reply as he looked around the deserted camp. The nurse shook her head gravely, arms crossed once again.

The sensation struck him yet again. It was a feeling of dread at the bottom of his stomach, and yet mixed with quite a conflicting jolt to a region wholly unassociated with impending doom. He blinked with confusion. Had this happened when she'd elbowed him in the stomach and grabbed him by the collar after he'd commented on her pelvis? He tried to recall those days when he would brazenly flirt with her only to be rebuffed with yelling or violence. Apparently _something_ had drawn him back in those times, for he _had_ been quite persistent.

Just then Colonel Potter left the surgery tent, striding towards them purposefully.

"Is this some kind of Mexican standoff?" he asked them, stopping abruptly before crossing in front of the pair. "You two better work out your differences before heading into the O.R. again. There's enough pressure in that room without you two letting off steam."

"My father died," Houlihan blurted, her voice hoarse.

"Oh, Margaret," Potter's voice murmured lowly, as he transformed his entire stance. His face laden with pity, he moved forward and reached towards the nurse to hug her. She turned to her superior officer and buried her face in his shoulder.

"I'm really sorry to hear that," Potter murmured quietly. "You know, your dad was very proud of you. He told me so. When did he pass?"

"A week ago. I got the letter last night," Margaret replied, her voice breaking. All that could be seen was her blonde hair during the conversation, her voice muffled in Colonel Potter's shoulder.

Winchester felt like an outsider during this touching moment. He could hear her silently sobbing into the colonel's shoulder, obviously devastated. Hands still in his pockets, he turned and strode away as quickly as possible without appearing to be running. He did not so much as look back at the scene and sat himself down on his cot in preparation for blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

Charles slipped off his shoes, socks, pants, and jacket and slipped under the relatively comfortable flannel sheets, pulling them up under his chin and snuggling into the worn mattress, his red velvet pillow tucked firmly under his head. Didn't Margaret realize that she was the reason he was still here?

It wasn't for the reason of love or even infatuation, as interesting as that would be. No, Major Houlihan's involvement in his protracted presence at this hellish quagmire was far more boring and depressing than that. Colonel Baldwin, the man who had originally sent him to this decaying sinkhole of despair, had promised his return to Tokyo if he would uphold the lie that Margaret had entered Baldwin's tent with the intention of acquiring a promotion. The truth of the matter was that Baldwin had been expecting some kind of female company, company arranged by Winchester himself, and that he had mistook Margaret for that company and had gotten fresh with her, to say the least. Charles had refused to lie for the scoundrel—it would have destroyed Margaret's reputation interminably. For this rare bout of selflessness, he was unduly rewarded with a resumption of his endless tenure at this hell-hole.

Now Charles had to endure the fact that his face was now hot and presumably mottled with red and perhaps even a woman's handprints, in addition to the fact that his tent had no surefire way of keeping people out—namely Margaret. Soon she would be arriving; he just knew it.

What was there to do, really? Should he go to the mess tent or the Officers Club? Perhaps loiter around the post-op ward? Blindly he fumbled around under the cot with an outstretched arm and found a mirror. At the sight of his face he sighed. Certainly the handprints would be seen—they were as plain as day! All he could do now was lie in wait.

Grumbling to himself, he shifted his body about and pulled the covers up to his eyes to cover his reddened face. It was bad enough that Major Houlihan had slapped him and worse yet that Hunnicutt and Pierce had witnessed it! No, he would never live it down. This would probably be the last time he'd be able to sleep without their asinine little comments.

He thought about playing some Brahms on his phonograph but immediately decided against it. Perhaps he could catch a decent amount of sleep while Margaret searched far and wide for him. The sound of his music would inevitably draw her to his tent. He lie in silence in the stuffy tent, turning his face away from the rays of the rising sun that filtered in through the translucent walls of his prison. Even in the dead of winter his brain-dead bunkmates insisted on leaving a partial wall of netting to let in the breeze. At the moment it was more like the breath of Old Man Winter himself.

* * *

"What do you think Margaret's gonna do to him?" Hawkeye asked Hunnicutt, as they sat down with their trays of breakfast in the mess tent.

"She already made him cry," Hunnicutt said with a shrug. "What more is there to do?"

"What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall where they are right now," Hawkeye murmured. "Wish I had a camera to capture those matching handprints on his face. Looked like an Indian in war paint."

"You and me both, buddy. I couldn't believe he kept pushing it with her. He could see she was about to explode and pushed her right over the brink."

"All she wanted was an apology. I mean, was that really so much to ask of him?"

"A Winchester does not apologize," Hunnicutt spoke a faked Boston Brahmin accent, sticking his nose in the air.

"Ehh, can't say I don't blame him, really. I have yet to hear an apology from the Army for this so-called food they make us eat. Been waiting for years for that."

"What is this supposed to be, anyway?" B.J. asked, holding up a fork of what looked to be tiny hard cubes. "How can you mess up a potato?"

"Don't tell me you haven't heard of the Korean Potato Blight, Beej. You know, the _KPB_."

His friend flashed him a big smile, dropping the potatoes back onto his tray to hear them clatter like stones. "No, what's that?"

"A U.S. military operation to keep us all malnourished enough that we can't go home," he said with a big toothy grin. "Of course, the blight pertains to all other food as well—they just had to shorten the name for sake of length. A 17-letter acronym is kinda self-defeating."

"Another blight idea," Hunnicutt muttered. "Remember the lumps they tried to pass off as onions? Said they were hit by blight late enough that the effects on them were superficial only. I'm no farmer, but there's no way an onion can look like an unripe orange."

Pierce didn't look convinced, shaking his head with a little grin.

"They were too onions! I cried when I bit into 'em."

Hunnicutt shook his head, having since scooped up a concoction remotely resembling oatmeal. "Unfortunately, I wouldn't put it past 'em to do something like that."

"Speaking of putting it past 'em," Hawkeye replied, "you move that by my nose again and I might call off all food for good."

* * *

"Get up."

It was Houlihan's voice, lingering right over his head. Major Winchester jumped involuntarily at the unexpectedly loud sound, but kept his eyes shut tightly, feeling a thick tightening in his stomach as he did so. He fought the unbearable urge to swallow, deciding it was better to remain as unaware-seeming as possible.

"I know you're awake, Major. Get up."

He did not so much as stir.

"Now."

A hand roughly shook his shoulder. Now both her hands were shaking him. He kept his eyes and mouth shut.

Suddenly his flannel blanket was being ripped off of him! The nerve of that woman, to do such a thing when unaware of his state of undress! His eyes flew awake, and he stared up at her indignantly, blinking away the filminess of sleep in his eyes. He held out his arm impatiently.

"What's that for?" she growled, staring at the arm as if it were holding a stick of dynamite.

"My blanket, please," he replied, voice as gentlemanly as ever, blue eyes with not a trace of rage. His nonchalance over the situation infuriated her!

"You can freeze for all I care," she scoffed, eyeing him up disdainfully. He felt painfully exposed, what with his little green shorts and his matching t-shirt keeping him barely covered from the elements.

"Your seeking out continuance to your prior outburst is unhealthy, Margaret," Charles replied with a renewed sense of righteousness, giving up on retrieving his blanket for the time being. He sat up in bed, keeping his legs together, knees slightly bent. Even his toes felt vulnerable, as if she could smash them at a whim. "You struck me twice already—"

"I didn't _strike_ you nearly as much as you need to be," she hissed at him, teeth bared.

"For what?" he replied with a chortle.

"For being a spoiled brat who never received your proper comeuppance."

"Ha," Charles deadpanned. "I've received more than my fair share of comeuppance, being stuck in this derelict cesspool of human suffering with a faction of blathering idiots."

"I'm not talking about the situation we're all in, Major, I'm talking about you getting your teeth slapped out of your mouth for your constant condescension. You need a shot of discipline."

"Excuse me?" He was half-smiling with incredulousness. This little, petite woman was sincerely threatening him? This curvy little blonde minx standing there in his makeshift bedroom, glowering down at him, was going to 'discipline' him? It was preposterous. He inadvertently let out a chuckle.

"What was that for?" she said, continuing to glower. Her face had darkened from a light peach to the ruddiness of a freshly sunburned face. "Are you _laughing_ at me?"

Major Houlihan's temper was infamously short. He had lit the fuse and could only watch as it ate its way towards the awaiting stick of dynamite. Why hadn't he tried to extinguish it? It was as if he were merely blowing gently on the lit portion, providing it with some much-needed oxygen.

"Course not," he replied, unable to hide the amused smile on his face. "I'm simply picturing the scenario in which _you_ forcibly restrain _me_ to accomplish said objective."

"Don't you push me, Winchester. So help me, I'll do it!"

Her emotions seemed greatly exaggerated. Even in the case of the death of a loved one, this tirade of hers was over-the-top. Something suddenly occurred to him. He smiled a little smile, interweaving his fingers on his lap.

"You're inebriated, aren't you, Major."

"Inebriated? You mean drunk?" she said brashly. "I don't recall that being any of your business, _Major_."

He checked his wristwatch, his expression lightly reproachful.

"As a matter of fact, Major, it _is_ a rather pertinent question. Approximately one hour ago we were in surgery. If your lackluster performance in there were to be attributed to such a state of being, there's no telling what harm could befall your career."

"Is that a threat? How _dare_ you accuse me of such a thing!"

At her response he became obnoxiously smug, a knowing little grin crossing his face.

"Your cantankerous response to an entirely legitimate question leads me to the conclusion that you have, in fact, been drinking. Though I sympathize with your situation, I cannot condone such behavior where patient lives are concerned."

"Go talk to Colonel Potter about it. See if I care!" she retorted, pointing in the direction of the colonel's tent. "Hell, I'll bring you to him myself." With that she grabbed his upper arm and pulled him sharply.

Winchester stammered for a moment, vexed by her response. He stared up at her, noticing her confidence, and shook his arm away from her.

"Do you honestly expect me to believe that Colonel Potter will tolerate your endangering the lives of patients because of a personal tragedy?"

"No. He'll tell you that I had a couple of drinks with him after you ran away all embarrassed. He has quite the taste for scotch—not that you would know that."

Major Winchester and Colonel Potter were not close—this much was obvious. Every time Winchester would attempt to finagle his way back to Tokyo or the States, Potter would shut him down immediately. And of course, every time there was an argument in the O.R. between surgeons, Winchester would always be the one to be told off by his C.O.

"I did not run away and I was not embarrassed," Charles corrected, clearly irritated. "As you'll recall, the slaps you administered to my face were solely responsible for the ensuing color. A Winchester does not embarrass easily."

"We'll just see about that," she said with a scoff, crossing her arms. He had wanted to question her about her impromptu meeting with Colonel Potter, but it seemed a legitimate enough excuse. Major Houlihan was not one to blatantly lie about something, especially something he could easily validate or refute with Colonel Potter. Besides, in the O.R. Margaret had not been tipsy or belligerent: quite the opposite, in fact. Now that she was threatening to embarrass him, his attention was diverted from the previous subject.

"What are you inferring?" he countered. She shook her head with disappointment before speaking.

"It's just, the _potential_ of a personality you could have had to complement your superior surgical skills is fatally flawed. Like I started to say earlier, if you'd had your proper comeuppance, you just might have turned out to be a decent person."

"Ha," he replied disdainfully. "And what ostensible personality flaw of mine would validate your version of comeuppance?"

"Your arrogance, Major. You're a snobbish prick and you treat everyone like they should worship the ground you walk on, merely because you're here. Our issues and problems are _nothing _compared to your sad situation—being stuck here with us uncultured degenerates. We should be so lucky to have you condescend to speak to us," she remarked, sarcasm dripping off of her words.

"Your penultimate sentence generally portrays my thoughts on the matter," he replied wryly, nodding slightly. "Actually, your final sentence isn't all that inaccurate either. And to think, I'd figured no one in this miserable slough truly understood me."

"That's it!" she raged. "Stand up!"

Charles did no more than think about covering his ears to block out her loud tirade. When it was apparent that she had given him some sort of command, he looked up at her.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm going to teach you a lesson! Right _now, _mister!"

It was a bizarrely authoritative thing to say. He felt a pang of fear and realized that her tone of voice had inexplicably struck a chord with him. His eyes drifted from her fiery eyes to her chest, to her hips…

"On your feet!" she fumed. At the combination of her voice and her body, he felt a very inappropriate sensation in his loins and slowly raised his knees upwards. Major Margaret Houlihan, the seductress-Attila the Hun hybrid, had certainly gotten his blood running with this sort of talk. In all honesty, he _was_ obeying her order to get up, just not in the manner she wished. A spontaneous smile broke out on his face at the thought of his sharp wit.

"That's it!" she yelled, shaking her blanket-filled fist at him. "You just wait!"

Again he felt a pang of longing, and shifted uncomfortably. What had gotten into her today, besides some of Colonel Potter's best scotch? Her explosive temper was not the issue; it had always been short. It was the fact that her threshold for total out-and-out screaming was noticeably higher. By now she should have thrown something and stormed off. And yet, here she was, standing before him with hands on her hips, continuing to berate him.

His response to her begged the additional question: what had gotten into _him_ today? Why hadn't he stopped this madness _before_ it escalated into a barrage of bizarre commands? How could he be deriving any kind of pleasure from this? When he'd been soundly chastised by Colonel Potter for the whole _Boston Globe_ fiasco, he'd only felt dread and embarrassment as he'd been led away by his ear. Thankfully this time he was not standing in the middle of camp in nothing more than an ill-fitting kimono.

Even so, Major Houlihan would soon be made aware of the inexplicable side-effect of her tirade. He _needed_ that damn blanket, and now. In a rather gutsy move considering the circumstances, Winchester hastily reached out and swiped the blanket from her, quickly draping it over his knees and tucking it around his lower body.

"How dare you!" Margaret raged, moving to the foot of his bed, looming over him. Now he had his arms wrapped around a knee, and the other leg folded under him. For such a tall man, the positioning looked awkward, to say the least. "Put down your knee."

Winchester rolled his eyes in mock annoyance.

"I thought you said you wanted me to stand up. How am I supposed to follow such divergent orders?"

"Stand up, then."

When he hesitated, she put her fists on her hips.

"Now, or you're going to get another slap across the face."

He cleared his throat and swallowed, staring up at her like a dog might after being caught chewing the slippers again. His libido was on another kick altogether, speeding up his pulse so that the heartbeats in his ears totally drowned out the comings and goings of the camp. His eyebrows pricked up at an unfamiliar sound. Was that sound of labored breathing coming from _him_?

"Get up. Now," she commanded, her voice deeper than usual. His breath quavered as he expelled it. It was rather intimidating to be on the receiving end of Margaret Houlihan's anger. It was no wonder nurse turnover was so high at the 4077th.

"Ah," he chided huskily, "that I cannot do." It was like he'd just run a marathon, for it was awfully difficult to catch his breath. "Kindly divulge to me the nature of my past-due comeuppance and I shall… consider it."

Margaret put her knee down on the bed. Charles's eyes went wide at the sight. Now Margaret was kneeling on the bed in front of him, though she held her upper body ramrod straight. Her hands were scheming something; he just knew it.

"Wh-what are you doing?" he blurted, watching a glimmer of mischief in her eye, her teeth glistening like fangs in the dark tent. "Margaret, what do you think you're doing?"

As he spoke he grasped the blanket tightly in his fingers, not completely certain he could stave her off. This couldn't happen here or now. The front walls of this abode consisted of netting draped over a wood frame, for God's sake!

Suddenly she lunged forward, planting her hands firmly on his bent knee and pushing it down under the weight of her upper body. In the moments of confusion that followed, Margaret was made aware of the effect she was having on Major Charles Emerson Winchester III. Charles drew his knee back up, but the damage had been done; Major Houlihan had seen hard evidence of the man's interest.

* * *

**A/N: I really like feedback and as you can see, it really makes me post a whole lot faster! Thanks again for your interest!**


	3. A Tall Order

A/N: Thanks to those of you who read this and to those of you who reviewed and left me feedback! I proudly present the next chapter, which to your delight/dismay, is one of the naughtier chapters of the story. The main warning I have with words is one use of the word "orgasm" but it's not explicit so don't fear! There are no other words describing that particular thing to the same extent (e.g. climax, etc isn't the same, because it can mean several different things. You certainly wouldn't say "I want to read the orgasm of the story" but you could say "I want to read the climax of the story"). I think that's the naughtiest word in this chapter and it's only used once, so beware. Do re-read the pairings section to remind yourself of what is to come as well, in case what you read doesn't float your boat. Please leave me some feedback because I've noticed many many M*A*S*H stories are either exclusively Hawkeye/Margaret or are OC/Hawkeye or OC/etc and this is a different venture. This story I think is unique in that there are **two** major pairings.

* * *

**CHAPTER 3 – A TALL ORDER**

Margaret's eyes lit up immediately at the revelation of the surgeon's interest. Charles could only roll his eyes in frustration and embarrassment, his face getting hotter and hotter. He couldn't look her in the eye.

"You like this, don't you?" the blonde nurse said with a sneer, the twinkle never leaving her eye. Charles was speechless, opening and closing his mouth yet unable to speak. He was practically panting at this point, counting silently in his head in a futile attempt to bring himself down, both literally and figuratively.

"That's why you kept egging me on, isn't it?" she said teasingly, the anger in her voice mixed with a drop of flirtatiousness. He could only mouth unheard words, his heart and lungs betraying him in their quest to work harder and harder. She continued speaking to the officer sitting before her clinging to his knee with no intention of letting it go. "You knew damn well what I wanted to hear and yet you continually avoided saying it. You wanted this, didn't you? Didn't you?"

"Actually," he began haltingly, "there are no words to describe the momentous miscommunication of intent that has just occurred. Your assumption that my…" at this he stammered for words, "…that any… physical reaction is a direct outcome of your actions or words—is wholly imprudent."

"Let's just see about that; shall we?" she replied, leaning forward yet again. He felt himself pulling back, though the situation with his knee and its purpose made it inadvisable to flee. He stared at the woman in front of him with eyes wide, his apprehension clear. She pulled back her arm and slapped him across the face with such malicious force that his entire body turned to the side, his hand shooting up to rub the re-sensitized skin. All the while his arousal made itself more apparent, blood clearly pooling there. He shut his eyes tightly, attempting to think away the sensation. The pressure in that region was almost unbearable. If she didn't stop or go away soon, it could be quite the messy outcome. Cautiously, he opened his eyes one at a time to find her staring at him.

"Now, what was that for?" he asked her, glowering up at her. His cheek felt like it was on fire.

In response to the increased tightness of his shorts, he drew both knees up to his chin, pinning the blanket to his legs with arms tightly wrapped around his legs. A muscle spasm was in order. His legs were far too long to remain in this position for any length of time.

"To prove a point," she spat. "You're actually _enjoying_ this. This explains so much." She put a hand to her forehead. "Why didn't I see it before?"

"Major, now is neither the time nor place for this." Even though he'd thought out what he'd wanted to say, it came out wrong. 'Now' was certainly not a place and yet he'd equated it with that. He could feel the years of schooling seeping out of him when speaking in such a state. The minx had rendered him stupid!

She merely crossed her arms, smiling knowingly at his new position, watching his chest rise and fall rather dramatically as he spoke. He saw that she did not believe him, and cleared his throat to continue speaking. His eyes locked on hers and his voice became very grave. This had to end, for a number of reasons.

"Come to think of it, there _is_ no time or place when this would ever be appropriate," he stated. "As a fellow officer, I am hereby ordering you to stop this nonsense."

"And what are you going to do about it if I don't?" she said with a flip of the hair, her eyes flashing challengingly at him. His blue eyes opened wide and he fought to compose himself for a moment. How had this changed from something purely punitive to an act of blatant flirtation?

"I—well, I hadn't thought about that, but I assure you it won't be pretty."

"Ha. You couldn't hurt a fly."

"That is completely false," he muttered, annoyed at her presumptuousness. "I can and have maimed and even killed the little buggers. I wouldn't hurt you, though, if that's what you're insinuating. A Winchester never strikes a woman."

She rolled her eyes with a smile, recalling a moment of passion with Frank Burns. She had slapped him across the face in a rage, and he had slapped her back. The affair that had seemed to be nearing its end flared up again with that reciprocation, and she'd never felt so aroused in her life.

As Margaret grinned broadly remembering the old encounter, Charles couldn't help but notice that her mood was completely different now. It was still terrifying in a way, but at least he wouldn't have to worry about more broken blood vessels in his face. His head pricked up at the sound of her voice, a sultry murmur.

"Major, do you remember that story you read to me by candlelight?"

Suddenly the memory came rushing back, a moment so long ago and yet so fresh in his mind now. Charles and Margaret had had quite a moment—in the chapter, at least. He cleared his throat, feeling a definite blush spreading across his face. She _had_ to be drunk, to mention that awkward experience with such fondness.

"Are you referring to chapter three of 'The Rooster Crowed at Midnight?'" he timidly asked her, praying away the impending kink in his calf muscle.

"Ha," she spat, with a little toss of her hair. "You remember even more than I do."

"And what, pray tell, does that have to do with our current predicament?" he inquired.

"Predicament," she said with a scoff, shaking her head. "Only you would call it that."

"Is that not what it is?" he shot back, voice rising in volume. "I am being held captive in my quarters by a slap-happy nurse."

"As I was saying—the chapter, Major."

"Ah yes, the chapter. What of it?"

She licked her lips, her tongue running along the edge of her teeth. He was transfixed.

"Jessica and Randolph—"

He gawked at her, mouth slightly ajar. She'd remembered the names of the amorous couple. She leaned down towards him and he could smell the scotch on her breath.

"—they were equals," she explained, her eyes looking far off. "Two horses—"

"Prize thoroughbreds, my dear," he interrupted. "Let's not damn them with faint praise."

A giant smile spread across her face at his clarification, and he couldn't help but smile faintly back.

"That was a line from the chapter, wasn't it?" she asked.

"Oh—was it," he began, feeling a tad embarrassed, running a hand through his sparse hair. "Well, I can't be sure of that."

"The point is that they were both hot-blooded and, oh—what was the other part?"

"I believe it had something to do with responsiveness to the whip. Where are you going with this, Major?"

"Does life not imitate art in this case?" she said, gesturing to his bent knees. He felt sweat trickling down his face and in the crevice of every joint. He could still feel the pressure in his loins and refrained from lowering his legs, though they were paining him.

"That tome is hardly considered art," he deadpanned in his Bostonian drawl, attempting to steer the conversation elsewhere. Pierce and Hunnicutt would surely be back soon and he refused to be seen in this state. "Now, Molière, Shakespeare—George Bernard Shaw—their works are what I truly consider to be art."

"You're changing the subject. Stop it," she growled. She moved to the front of his cot again, staring down at him with a perplexingly determined grin across her lips. She voiced her thoughts aloud. "Damn it. Where was I going with that?"

"Ah, yes, we were discussing your imminent departure from my quarters, for your determining with Hunnicutt the value of his tome in the annals of modern literature. I believe he is in the mess tent at present."

"I know better," she said with a sneer. "You're always standing or sitting by me. I've seen you staring at me more than once, you know—not to mention, requesting me as your nurse more often than anyone else…."

"The reason why I consistently appoint you as my nurse is simply because you are superior to the rest." He cleared his throat awkwardly at the ensuing silence. "…of the nurses."

"Is that how you feel? That I'm a superior nurse? Nothing else? What about everything else I said?"

"Margaret, Margaret; let's not argue semantics. I have told you my feelings on the matter—now let it rest."

"Well, you could've fooled me," she replied with narrowed eyes. "You were crazy about me, Charles. You can't deny it."

"Even if that were factual, the key word in your discourse is _were_, Major," he spat. "I would never have involved myself with a married woman. We Winchesters have amongst the highest ethical standards in all of New England."

"I'm not a married woman anymore."

His eyes went wide at her brazen come-on.

"That's the scotch talking, Margaret," he chided, his face getting hot yet again. "It's going to your head and clouding your judgment."

Suddenly his cot shifted, squeaking loudly in protest. Charles's blue eyes shot upwards, from Margaret's feet to her head. This time she had stepped onto his cot, standing high above him, her head still a sizable distance from the vaulted tarp that served as the ceiling.

"That's it! Blanket off," she demanded. "Or I'll take it off."

"What is this sudden obsession with my blanket?" he replied, chuckling nervously. "I'm not appropriately dressed for this weather. Are you trying to give me hypothermia, woman?"

"Ha, as if that could happen. You're sweating like a pig," she noted.

"For future reference, Major, pigs do not perspire."

"Wasn't it you who said a Winchester never perspires? Now look at you!"

She was equating him to a pig _and_ calling him a liar in one breath, all while sullying his bed with her dusty boots! His face darkened, the outline of Margaret's most recent handprint re-emerging on his face.

"Get off my bed this instant!" he demanded, his temper rising, as he straightened his legs to shove her feet off. She was a bit unsteady on her feet, both from the alcohol and from standing on the lumpy mattress. "Have you no sense of propriety?" he spat. "I don't want to have to change my linens on account of you."

"I guarantee you'll be doing it anyway," she retorted from her high position. He blinked several times with confusion. Even so, he couldn't help but feel a small victory when she stepped off of the cot back onto the ground. In his regained confidence he hadn't even noticed that his knees were no longer hiding what he'd tried so fervently to conceal.

She stood before him, hands on her hips, a determined smile playing on her lips. He eyed her carefully, the tousled locks, the hourglass symmetry of her shoulders and hips, the cinched waist accentuated by her thin green belt…

Suddenly her hand moved for her pants. Swiftly she unfastened her belt. Was she going to strip right here in broad daylight behind walls of mere netting? Charles went into panic mode, panting as if running out of air. Her anger had been defused or perhaps rerouted was a better word for it, but the fuse of his own libido had been lit and suddenly it was mere moments from reaching his own stick of dynamite. Though he wouldn't naturally object to an impromptu striptease from the nurse, such an exhibition wouldn't be proper or safe to carry out in the Swamp, where the womanizing Pierce could return any moment and spoil it for everyone.

"What are you doing, Major?" he asked her, wanting his words to come out stronger than they had. His question came out as a croaked whisper.

Her hand jerked at the belt, smoothly yanking it out of its loops. She was now holding her belt in her hand, fist clenched around the buckle. She paused, snapping the belt against an open palm. He gulped. What in the world was she going to do with that?

"You picked that chapter to read to me for a reason," she murmured lowly. "You were trying to tell me something, weren't you."

"Ah, now that simply isn't true," he explained, swallowing hard. "Furthermore, that was more than a year ago, Margaret. Let bygones be bygones."

"Where _is_ this stallion, Major? This ego of yours needs to be whipped clean away—and I'll be the woman to do it. Look at you—you can't even hide the fact that you want it."

With that, she blatantly looked at the region of his interest then stared directly into his eyes, a brazen act sending shock waves through his system as he watched her eyes take him in. He looked down at himself, realizing he'd neglected to hide his lingering interest after attempting to get her off his cot. Immediately he pulled his knees to his chin, but the sight had been seen. He shut his eyes tightly, fighting his own end, an uncontrollable surge of shivers moving through him. He could feel her lifting the edge of the covers in an attempt to expose him further, yet he was too far gone to physically protect himself from such a scandalous view.

"Klinger," he muttered through clenched teeth. "…in a rhinestone-covered blue evening gown… with pink pumps and teardrop pendant earrings of Austrian crystal," he added, eyes shut tightly enough to see stars. "W-white stockings."

"What are you blabbering about now?" she demanded. He swallowed again, searching for words. He jumped at the flick of the belt on his now bared thigh. Yet another shock wave in preparation for the fast-approaching tidal wave…

"Klinger—I-I imagined the thought of him to be effective at diffusing such… situations," he muttered self-consciously, glancing downwards. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I am currently testing my hypothesis."

"No," she retorted, her belt slapping down on his thigh, leaving a red stripe where it had landed. Pain and pleasure simultaneously flooded up his leg, capsizing what little self-control Charles had left. A whimper left his lips, accompanied by a blush of embarrassment.

"Margaret, I apologize for my… lack of sensitivity regarding your father's death. Ah," he said with an exhalation of relief. "That does it; surely you have other things to attend to."

"In case you haven't noticed, this isn't about my father anymore," she said, licking her lips. "Put your legs down."

He had utilized the finishing move in the form of a long-overdue apology, which should have sent her away. Yet here she was, standing above him continuing to berate him and addressing far more than just his apathy about this morning. If she hadn't been drunk, this would have ended long ago.

"Why are you doing this, Major?" he cried, the tension in his body remaining unbearably high. "You've forgiven me my trespasses against you."

"And yet, you're being delivered into temptation," she retorted, her breathing rate noticeably increased. His whole body shuddered, fingers curling around his kneecaps and squeezing the remnants of blanket hanging off of one leg. An image of her straddling his hips flashed across his mind. How could the Lord's Prayer incite such feelings of lust in him? Father Mulcahy would be shaking his head, if he knew!

"I'm gonna break you; you can count on that." Her voice was a harsh whisper barely heard above the sounds of his own frantic breaths and pounding heartbeat. She switched hands with the belt, her dominant hand now free.

"Duly noted," he murmured, his voice very small. "But I envisage you failing to remember this altercation tomorrow. You're drunk and you're not yourself."

"You're wrong, Charles. This _is_ me, without all my usual inhibitions."

"You know nothing of inhibition," he muttered. "Your opinions are always delivered raw and unfiltered. Nevertheless, I stand by my prediction that you won't remember any of this."

"Well, I'm gonna make it something you'll never forget," she retorted.

Suddenly, her hand snaked its way under his exposed knee, administering a firm slap to his backside.

His hips involuntarily bucked and he shut his eyes to hide his shame.

"Damn it to hell, Margaret," he muttered through clenched teeth, his breathing ragged.

What she had done was enough to set him over the edge. He could do no more than let the flood overtake him, his hips instinctively thrusting as his rational mind chanted a futile mantra to make the motions stop. She quickly pulled her hand away as he shuddered with release, his panting reaching a fever pitch, mouth slightly ajar and legs dropping lifelessly onto the cot. His hands dug into the fabric of the cot mattress, fists clenching the ratty material until his knuckles went white from lack of blood.

As Charles found his release, he could only pant and whimper, his body still at odds with itself. And with that, Margaret Houlihan had witnessed an act so intimate, so elusive that no one in the 4077th had yet laid eyes on it—a Winchester orgasm.

* * *

Major Winchester opened his eyes to see Margaret standing in front of the door, her arms crossed as she evidently waited for him. He had been terrified to open his eyes after that raw moment of truth, and instead lie in repose for several minutes, all the strength and fight gone out of him. All the while she had not made a single sound. Had she watched the entire… scene?

"Ah, Charles," she said, her voice breathy, a sly grin on her face. "I see you got yours. Now I want mine. My tent. Twenty-two hundred hours."

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out but a grunt. He swallowed but his throat was dry. She smiled enticingly at him, wetting her lips with her tongue. His voice emerged as one word.

"Tonight?"

Her smile grew.

"Yes, Major. Tonight."

Before he could say anything else, she turned abruptly and headed out the door.

His head still swimming from the absurdity of it all, he shook it in an attempt to clear the curtain of fog dimming his mind. Had she actually just said what he thought she said? Had she invited him to her quarters for an encore? Perhaps the entire situation was within the context of a dream, beginning when he'd returned to his bed after being slapped twice. This was not like him, to do such a thing—to allow such a thing to happen. Granted, the opportunity for such an event had never presented itself before, but he had been raised to appreciate traditional romance. The tryst had to be a figment of his imagination; such a thing could never have happened to a man of his influence and status. And yet, it most assuredly had occurred and not only that; he had been a willing participant!

He sat up slowly, carefully, feeling the hot aftereffects of what had just occurred between him and the head nurse of the 4077th. He ran a hand under the blanket to discover that at least two articles would need to be washed. So it hadn't been a dream. Winchesters could never stoop to the level of experiencing nocturnal emissions. Now the question was what to do with this particular kind of laundry. He certainly couldn't give it to someone else to wash!

"Surgery prep," he muttered to himself, still in disbelief. "The washbasins there will do the trick."

Smacking his lips together in distaste, he moved his uncovered left leg to the ground by his cot, preparing to stand up and deal with the mess. He had to change his pants, but in moving a fresh set of trousers or shorts underneath the blanket, they themselves would get soiled from the blanket. Changing into different clothing would have to be done quickly and efficiently—all while standing up in the Swamp.

He slid his other leg out from under the blankets, turning his body sideways and setting his foot on the ground. What was Margaret considering incorporating into her desired encore? Sophie's riding crop, for instance? She _had_ mentioned horses more than once. He felt a shiver go down his spine, another flood of conflicting sensations accompanying it. There was no time for that kind of thinking. Never again would he allow himself to be humiliated in such a way.

Still barefoot, Charles slipped his feet into a pair of slippers by the cot. The ground was frigid and he vowed to not catch cold by walking around on it like some sort of heathen.

"Odd, wasn't it?"

The voice outside was unmistakably Pierce's New England drawl. Frantically Charles turned himself ninety degrees and pulled his blankets over his body, his slippers clattering on the floor at the foot of his cot.

"Ah, the mystery of women," Hunnicutt's voice answered. "Heck, I don't even understand what makes _Peg_ tick."

"They're just so… temperamental," Pierce responded. "Smiling like she's without a care in the world. I'd never recognize her from the way she was an hour and a half ago."

Charles couldn't help but squint in the dimness of the tent, a grin flickering onto his face at the thought. If he didn't have his dignity to uphold, he would be seeing much more of that smile at 2200 hours. It was too bad that he was not the kind of person to partake in such depravity. No, he'd never again grant Margaret the satisfaction of besting a Winchester.

* * *

A/N: I like signed and anonymous reviews! In writing this story, I actually did a "read-through" of it to see if dialogue flowed consistently and I would like to pride myself on keeping the characters in-character! Your feedback helps keep me on the right track! So, if you have any comments/suggestions/questions, I would be extremely glad to know them!

PS: I would really like to post the next chapter quickly because it's basically written! I think it's very funny and there's a lot of bantering between Winchester, Hawkeye and B.J. at the Swamp! If you'd like to see this really quickly, let me know and I could have it up by as soon as tonight!


	4. The Spoils of War

A/N: Thank you to you who read this chapter and those who reviewed! It was this enthusiasm that compelled me to post the next chapter very quickly! Lots of fun Winchester/Hawkeye/B.J. bantering in this chapter!

* * *

**CHAPTER 4 – THE SPOILS OF WAR**

"I wonder if Margaret had Charles on his knees begging for forgiveness. That would put a smile on my face."

Hunnicutt's voice cut through Major Winchester's concentration. The pair of dolts would soon be entering the Swamp and making it very difficult for him to do what he'd wanted to do before the next batch of incoming wounded—that is, getting his bed, clothing, and self back to normal.

"Now _that_ I would pay to see," Pierce responded to Hunnicutt, as they stood at the door to the Swamp. "They should send him along with every officer that has to talk to the next of kin of the deceased. He'd have 'em laughing in no time."

Pierce and Hunnicutt strode into the tent, seeing Charles in his bed only after they'd been in the room for several seconds. They both looked at him with confusion on their faces.

"Gentlemen, I'd appreciate it if you'd take your conversation elsewhere," Charles deadpanned, supporting his upper body on his elbows. "I need to catch up on my sleep—in silence."

"And why would we want to do that?" Pierce replied. "We wanna hear all the juicy details. What'd Margaret do to you after we left?"

"I'm afraid that's classified information. But if you must know, we worked out our differences."

"No begging?" Pierce asked. "You didn't kiss her feet, did you?"

"Not hardly. Just idle chitchat. You know, that sort of thing."

"You don't _do_ idle chitchat, Chawls," Pierce replied. "You _sermonize_, yes; you _prelect_; but you do _not_ chitchat."

"Ah," Winchester replied, a little grin spreading on his face, "I am pleasantly surprised by your remarkable vocabulary. It's so… unlike you, Pierce."

"I'll bet you never realized Margaret was such a striking blonde until today," Hunnicutt teased, as the two surgeons sat on their respective cots.

"Can't say that I did," Winchester replied humorlessly, rubbing the back of his neck with a sweaty hand. If he didn't get them to leave the Swamp soon, his mess would be far harder to clean.

"You make quite the morale booster, Charles," Pierce remarked. "Margaret's all smiles now."

"Speaking of morale, breakfast this morning wasn't worth the loss of sleep," Hunnicutt added grumpily. "You're lucky to have avoided it."

"Is it ever worth it?" Charles commented, a smile having snuck its way onto his face.

"The food here never fails to disappoint," Pierce said as he readjusted the sheet underneath him. He turned to Hunnicutt. "Just attribute that sinking feeling in your stomach to the potatoes settling in."

"I'm used to it and all, but in last night's letter I was telling you about, Peg told me that she's taking _cooking_ classes. She's taking cooking classes for me. I've made her believe that she's a bad cook."

The conversation had completely steered itself away from Charles, who still had a trace of a smile on his face. These types of inane conversations about Hunnicutt's family were enough to make him crave P.A. announcements, if only to temporarily drown out his bunkmates' voices.

"But, isn't she?" Pierce replied.

"Yeah, but that's not the point. Doesn't she realize that her food will never taste bad to me again, now that I've eaten here?"

"Well, now you got even more to look forward to when the war is over. Edible food."

"Yeah," Hunnicutt replied, voice trailing off.

"Hunnicutt, did it ever occur to you that she might be taking cooking classes for her own sake?" Charles said yawningly. "You're not the only person who would benefit from improved food quality at the Hunnicutt household."

Hunnicutt rolled his eyes.

"As if _you_ know anything about a woman's feelings," he said with a scoff.

Charles narrowed his eyes at the mustached surgeon.

"What are you insinuating?"

"Well, for one, you broke the cardinal rule when it comes to dealing with women."

Charles's eyebrows rose as he awaited the reply. When Hunnicutt failed to speak, he vocalized his impatience.

"Being…"

"Never ever insult a woman's father," Hunnicutt scolded. "Every woman has her daddy issues and to tell one right to her face that the very basis of her opinion of men is _insufferable_—well, I'm surprised she didn't clean your clock. I'd never even dream of bringing up my father-in-law to Peg; even she would be put off by that."

"You got no common sense, Charles," Pierce added, shaking his head. "Sure, you got plenty of American and Swiss cents, but that means nothing when you're talking to a woman."

"Ha, are you serious," Charles deadpanned. "It's only the impecunious who believe that money is irrelevant when it comes to impressing women."

"And yet, I'm the one who can't even count on two _hands_ how many nurses have shared my bed in the past couple of years."

"I believe that," Winchester retorted, to see Pierce smile knowingly. He was not finished. "If you so much as attempted to count to ten, your head would probably explode from the sheer difficulty of the task. I'd advise against it, for the sake of your mental health."

"Ha ha, very funny," Pierce muttered. "But like I said, where's the nicks on your bedpost? I haven't seen you with a woman since Klinger stopped dressing in drag."

"You jest, of course. I would not stoop so low as to allow you heathens to witness me striding alongside my intellectual equal."

The word _equal_ had come up between Margaret and him. However, the blonde nurse was hardly his intellectual equal. Sure, she was reasonably intelligent, but could she quote the Hippocratic Oath verbatim?

"Nurses aren't stupid, Charles," Hawkeye chided. "You telling me you can't find _one_ woman you'd condescend to have sex with?"

Winchester rolled his eyes, making a sound of disgust.

"If I had, I certainly wouldn't divulge her identity to you. You make the process sound so revolting, the way you put it. I am looking for someone with whom to share a common wealth of knowledge, not some wanton creature whose desirability is directly proportional to the condition of her body."

"So physical looks don't matter to you, Chuckie?" Hunnicutt commented. "I'd imagine they probably aren't too important, given the condition of _your_ body."

Charles did not so much as blink at the retort.

"That is not what sustains a relationship, Hunnicutt; you of all people ought to realize that."

Hunnicutt stood up with a start, his eyes shooting daggers.

"Are you calling Peg ugly? So help me, Charles…."

Charles couldn't help but flinch at the sudden anger in the normally calm surgeon.

"Course not, Hunnicutt. Your wife is perfectly adequate in that respect."

"Uh oh," Pierce cautioned, jumping up in front of his friend. "I wouldn't trod there, Charles, or else you're gonna have a black eye to complement your red cheeks."

"I was not referring to your wife," Charles said to Hunnicutt, nervously chuckling after his admission. He had entered onto dangerous territory again and it wasn't even noon yet.

"Why else would you say something like that?" Hunnicutt demanded, his voice ever-louder. "Peg has never done anything wrong to you. How could you say such a thing?"

"I was referring to _you_, you nitwit," Winchester explained with irritation, "but inasmuch as you think so highly of yourself, you couldn't possibly perceive I was referring to a deficiency in your physical appearance."

"What _is_ the deficiency you're referring to then, huh?" Hunnicutt shot back, his hands balling into fists. "Too little fat around the waist? Or too little scalp exposed?"

"Okay, Beej," Pierce murmured soothingly, touching his friend's shoulder. "He got your point. I mean, look at him," he said, gesturing to Winchester. "He's too scared to get out of bed to tell you to your face."

Winchester had a very good reason for not getting up, and wasn't about to make that public. For the sake of his dignity, he had to submit to Hunnicutt for the time being.

"Precisely, Pierce," Winchester said in a relieved exhalation of air.

"Now he's being sarcastic," Hunnicutt muttered to Pierce, not satisfied with this stalemate.

"Not at all, Hunnicutt," Winchester admitted with a self-conscious chuckle. "I think it best we all put this unfortunate encounter behind us; don't you agree?"

"Look me in the eye and tell me you weren't insulting my wife."

Charles stared at the man, his eyes opening wide as he spoke.

"I was not insulting your wife. I don't even know the woman."

"I keep a picture of her by my bed, for God's sake. You know damn well what she looks like. Blonde, shoulder-length hair, pretty as a picture…."

"Ah, yes," Winchester said, glancing at the back of the picture frame from across the room. "I do recall now—very lovely woman. Hunnicutt, I was not intending for—"

"Stand up and face me. Tell me you weren't insulting my wife. Eye to eye."

Charles wanted badly to roll his eyes, but now was certainly not the time. The situation was becoming direr and direr. He had angered two people beyond their normal thresholds in a single morning. He spoke without moving from his position.

"Hunnicutt, I can assure you that insulting Peg was not my intention. What has gotten into you today? Is Erin now calling some other soldier 'daddy?'"

At that remark, the mustached doctor lunged towards Charles's cot with a growl, utterly enraged. Pierce grabbed his arm but was otherwise ineffective at keeping him back. Hunnicutt stopped on his own volition, standing above Charles's cot.

"That's Mrs. Hunnicutt to you. And who my daughter calls her father is none of your business. _I'm_ her father."

"You make it my business every time you speak of it in the confines of this cell."

"It was a guy he went to med school with," Hawkeye blurted in a half-whisper, putting his hand to the side of his mouth as he spoke. He was met with a glare from Hunnicutt, who then glared at Charles, catching him in the midst of a smug little smirk.

"Did you just smile, Charles?" B.J. growled. "I'm gonna wipe that grin off your face, if it's the last thing I do."

Charles swallowed, taking great pains to erase every last bit of happiness off his face. This next part was going to be excruciatingly difficult for him to do, but he had to for the sake of his greater dignity.

The balding surgeon looked up at the mustached man looming above his bed where Margaret had been mere minutes ago. This attempt had not worked well with Margaret; would it work with Hunnicutt? Perhaps. Hunnicutt was far more rational than Margaret, even in his worst days. He opened his mouth to apologize, but was interrupted by Hunnicutt.

"It smells funny over here," the mustached doctor noted, narrowing his eyes. "You buy a slew of old books or something?"

"I don't smell anything," Charles replied, rapidly looking around the immediate vicinity.

"It smells musty," Hunnicutt explained. "Doesn't it, Hawk?"

Hawkeye stepped forward and sniffed rather noisily.

"Is someone shirking their cleaning duties?" he teased, shaking his finger at Charles, who was still sitting in bed.

"My maid's on vacation," Charles replied, to the sound of snickering. "I mean that in a literal sense."

The dark-haired surgeon sniffed again, his eyes suspicious.

"That's not mustiness, Beej. It smells like sex."

"Shows how long I've been away from home," B.J. commented bitterly.

"Sex?" Winchester chortled as naturally as possible, sweat simultaneously beading on his forehead. "Not hardly. I've been here alone all morning."

"I'm not arguing with that," Pierce replied.

Winchester's eyes narrowed with incredulity.

"Then what are you—"

Hawkeye and B.J. exchanged amused glances. Suddenly, Winchester understood.

"You are beyond the pale, Pierce. For you to insinuate that I would—"

The feedback of static cut off Winchester's response. Charles had never been so relieved to hear the P.A. system and listened intently to the mind-jarring feedback.

"Attention all personnel. Incoming wounded. Reserve your spot in the O.R.; it's filling up fast!"

"Damn it," Pierce huffed. "And this was getting so good, too."


	5. The Smell Of Fear

A/N: Thank you for the feedback and for the interest! And now, for your reading pleasure, chapter 5!

* * *

**CHAPTER 5 – THE SMELL OF FEAR**

Charles stood in surgery prep, his scrubs slipped hastily over his clothing, up to his elbows in soap-suds from the washbasin. He had waited patiently for Pierce and Hunnicutt to leave the Swamp, and had merely performed a blind clothing change and cleanup under his blanket. It was not enough to put his mind at ease. Even the fact that he'd spritzed cologne to cover up the distinctive smell was no comfort. He was certain that they could sense his unease, could smell the remnants of what had occurred.

Pierce and Hunnicutt largely ignored him as they prepared for surgery, though as they strode through the curtain of cologne surrounding him, Pierce froze in place.

"Is that cologne I smell, Chawls?" At Charles's eyeroll, he stepped towards B.J. and addressed him. "Seems our little chat with Major Winchester really got through to him, Beej. It's been far too long since someone reminded him of his lack of company and now he's working overtime to get some."

"I don't know; he seems to be managing just fine on his own," Hunnicutt replied with a shrug and a grin.

The balding surgeon could only shift uncomfortably as the two surgeons looked his way, the whole notion of his unclean state abhorrent to him. In the wake of Winchester's silence on the matter, Pierce clasped his hands together and smiled dreamily.

"Aww, our little boy is all grown up now and wants to take someone's breath away. Isn't that sweet?"

Hunnicutt could only let out a cough, fanning his mouth with a hand.

"Well, with that stuff, it's definitely possible."

* * *

Thankfully, the load of patients only took two hours for the four surgeons to operate on and move into post-op. Major Winchester remained quiet during the procedures, even through all the bantering of Pierce and Hunnicutt. Major Houlihan was nowhere to be seen. It was good to know that she was responsible enough to know that her drunkenness made her incapable of taking part in such delicate work.

Nurse Kellye aided him through the numerous surgeries, following his terse orders without hesitation. Even though his job had been made easier with the help of a cooperative nurse, the balding surgeon was not smiling behind his mask.

"Where's Major Houlihan?" he was asked by the short nurse beside him upon beginning the first procedure. "Wasn't she supposed to be working with you all day today?"

"I've no idea," he replied quickly. "Have you not heard anything?"

"No, Major," she responded. "I was supposed to be working with Colonel Potter today, and he assigned me to you instead."

"Ah," Winchester answered. Hopefully that would be the end of it.

"Is it true that her father passed away?" the nurse asked him. "I've heard a couple of people talking about it."

"That's affirmative," Charles deadpanned, glad that his face was mostly hidden behind a mask. "Retractor."

"I can't blame her for wanting to stay away for the time being. She's probably crushed."

"Ha, hardly. She's completely inebriated, Nurse Kellye. Now, if you please—my retractor."

"Did you just say Major Houlihan is drunk, Charles?" Pierce said, two gurneys away from Charles.

"I do believe he did, Hawk," Hunnicutt added from his position closer to the balding surgeon. Charles couldn't help but roll his eyes. It figured that the attention span of his fellow surgeons could be stretched to accommodate whatever topic crossed their paths. Potter remained silent.

"Well, that explains the smiling," Pierce said with a shrug. Behind his mask, Winchester beamed.

* * *

The surgeons finished with their patients just before lunchtime. They trudged to the mess tent in a clump, exhausted from the ordeals they'd had to deal with the past two days. Charles held his breath as they entered the makeshift building, the stench of old cabbage hitting his coworkers' faces and causing them to simultaneously gag.

"Geez, what is it today?" Pierce said, holding his nose after catching the first whiff of lunch.

Hunnicutt had a reply ready. "Apparently month-old cabbage is the soup du gore."

"Ya know, there's so much stuff that gets _better_ with age: wine, scotch, brandy, cheese," Hawkeye commented. "Why don't they serve us more of that? They wouldn't have to do anything different."

"Because we'd be reduced to mere animals," Winchester cut in, recalling Margaret's alcohol-induced about-face. "Slinking around doing whatever we pleased, and saying anything that came to mind without restraint."

"Didn't know cheese turned you into an animal, Chuck," Hunnicutt said. Winchester could only shake his head, irritated by the barrage of jokes. Just when he thought the subject had been dropped, Pierce had something to add.

"Cheese doesn't make him an animal, Beej. It turns him into a _Muenster_."

Winchester rolled his eyes while Hunnicutt and Pierce laughed at their wit. He was too uncomfortable to formulate a decent enough retort.

"All silliness aside, Charles, are you trying to make that sound like a downfall of our being served that stuff?" Hawkeye asked him. "Because it sounds pretty damn good to me. Might even mask the taste of the rest of it."

"How did I know you'd say that," Charles deadpanned, rolling his eyes. Hawkeye was still not finished talking. As they fell into the buffet line, he looked deep in thought.

"You're right, Charles; it has its problems. Saying anything that comes to mind would mean airing a lot of dirty laundry. Wouldn't want the nurses kissing and telling, ya know? It'd spoil it for the rest."

Suddenly Winchester remembered. He gave Hawkeye and B.J. a curt nod and took off out of the mess tent.

"What was that all about?" Hunnicutt inquired. Private Igor proceeded to dump a charred black substance roughly the consistency of compost on his tray.

Pierce grinned at his friend. "He must've seen that in advance."

* * *

Upon arriving at the Swamp, Major Winchester balled up his soiled garments and placed them in a sack before heading to the scrub sinks. There were no more incoming wounded for the time being, and so the whole hospital he presumed to be empty.

Winchester strode quickly across the dusty camp, pulling open the door to the surgery prep room and seeing darkness. With a sigh of relief, he stepped into the room and made his way for the washbasins.

"Major?"

It was Klinger's voice. Hopefully that nose of his was currently in the throes of a sinus-stuffing cold. Winchester stood in the dark room eyeing the short man, the sack on his shoulder.

"Ah, Klinger. What brings you to surgery prep at such an inopportune time?"

"Just doing the last bit of cleaning," he replied. "Heard there may be more wounded coming in later. What you got in the sack?"

"A bit of laundry."

"Ya know, laundry pickup is tomorrow."

"I am aware of that," Winchester deadpanned.

"So why don't you just wait 'til tomorrow? Can't afford the $1.50? I can loan you it."

"Money is not the issue, Klinger."

"Why don't you wait 'til then? We _have_ laundry facilities—you don't have to use the scrub sinks, you know."

"I should have figured you'd be nosier than most, with that colossal proboscis of yours. It's not your concern, Klinger." He pushed past the shorter man, a dismissive air to his voice. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

"Whew!" the shorter man exclaimed. "Are you wearing cologne, Major?"

Winchester only nodded.

"What is it?" Klinger asked. "I don't recognize the scent—and I thought I knew all of 'em."

"That's because it's far above your purchasing power, you little Lebanese leech. It's Royal English Leather—said to be ordered by King George III of England in 1781."

"Is that a fact?" Klinger leaned in, his face inquisitive.

"Undeniably."

"Pardon my saying it, Sir, but did you rob his grave for it?" Klinger asked.

"Why do you ask?"

"There's a weird tinge of mustiness to it." He waved a hand in front of his nose, which was wrinkled with distaste. "You telling me you don't smell that?"

* * *

Finally Winchester was settled back into the Swamp. He had since cleaned his linens, taken a refreshing shower, and was now reclining in his chair listening to Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 in B Flat Minor. He had missed lunch but he wasn't hungry. The food here was useless in assuaging it anyway. It was now 4 pm, a mere six hours before Major Houlihan would be expecting him.

She was probably at present feeling the first pangs of a hangover. He emptied his mind of thoughts of her, concentrating on the music. His eyes shut in utter peace, he listened to the flourishes of piano striking the downbeats between the smooth swell of strings. Music was his escape from this deplorable place, the reminder of civilization and culture and his life back in Boston. It freed him from the confines of the makeshift tents, cold aluminum-sided buildings, and sparse living quarters. It freed him from the jokes cut every day at his expense, the sound reproaches from his C.O. when he'd attempt to defend himself. And most of all, it freed him from the confounding mixture of dread and excitement he felt at the idea of obeying Margaret's order for this evening.

Charles's hands moved in rhythm with the music as he silently conducted the piece in the dimness of his empty tent. It was then that he heard the music in a different light—the sharp piano riffs equated with Margaret's commands, the slap of flesh upon flesh, the responding echo of piano and strings his responses to those stimuli. Eventually the piece returned to its swelling of strings and piano in a climactic forte, then fell into a muted dirge—the end of the song. Was this piece a kind of representation of their relationship? The beginning of the movement—the harmonious albeit hesitant beginnings of a possible romance—his first few months at the 4077th. The exchange of compliments and mutual respect, the impromptu meetings in her tent, not to mention the ever-increasing suspicions of Pierce and Hunnicutt all the while. Sharp piano riffs and cacophonous responses—the depiction of Margaret's rebuffs culminating in today's explosive argument, leading to his eventual surrender to the sensations she'd evoked to formulate a melodious climax. And finally, a subdued requiem representing the inevitable fading of what they had shared. Where would tonight—if it were to happen—fall into that continuum?

With a series of commands and the slightest of physical contact, Margaret had again filled his thoughts, with thoughts of her even permeating into his music. Once the Victrola had reached the end of the second climactic movement, he sighed, moving the arm back to the beginning of the song.

* * *

Margaret paced back and forth in her tent, her head throbbing and mouth dry. In the wake of her father's death, she had barely grieved. Instead, she'd taken two rather deserved slaps of Winchester's face and turned them into a strangely intimate session with the man. These were not the worst offenses, however. Had she seriously invited Charles for a continuation to what had happened earlier?

The last time she'd had too much scotch she'd ended up with Hawkeye—and that had turned into absolutely nothing. She had summarily frightened him away by assuming a night of kissing and holding each other meant as much to him as it had to her. He'd certainly never been so happy to get away from her, that she gathered. The thought of her very own actions and assumptions causing such furious backpedaling from the flirty surgeon had been ego-crushing, to say the least. To think, a mere _captain_ had rejected a major!

Margaret had watched Hawkeye move from one nurse to the next, sometimes in the same week. She should have expected she'd be no different than the rest. The experience had been humbling, if nothing else.

Charles, on the other hand, hadn't flaunted any relationships of his with anyone on the compound—if he'd even had any to speak of. He was an immensely private man, a man who could be both abrasive and yet surprisingly eager-to-please. He had a complimentary streak and an almost pushy desire to be near her even though she had been married to Donald at the time. Even though she'd snub his advances, all that he'd attempted to say or do would not even move the dial on a scale of aggressiveness. He had been patient, ever so patient with her in those times, obeying her without question, his eyes earnest as he'd look back at her a final time before retreating. Even though she rebuffed him time and time again, he never took it to heart or uttered a nasty retort. He certainly was capable of telling people off, if listening to his and Pierce's O.R. banter was any indication. The Charles she had gotten to know was a kind man, a courteous, proper gentleman.

Of course, his insensitivity this morning was a shock to her system. He'd never had such a strong effect on her. Her ordeal with Hawkeye in the abandoned hut had only warranted one well-deserved slap. Charles's behavior, on the other hand, had warranted two. And to think, he had actually enjoyed it! She'd never expected the blue-blooded Major Charles Emerson Winchester III to be so full of surprises.

Even so, she couldn't make the same mistake she'd made with Hawkeye. If she liked what she saw in Charles tonight, she'd keep her distance from him. To keep him wanting more, she'd have to keep Major Winchester at bay. She would never again put herself in the kind of vulnerable state that she had with Hawkeye. She'd always been the one to wear her heart on her sleeve and where had that gotten her? A failed affair with a married man, a divorce, and an awkward encounter with one of her best friends. No, this was the dawning of a new Margaret, a Margaret that had taken the lead and had gotten a snooty surgeon to degrade himself, all in the name of pleasure. Would she ever tell Charles that his reading that sultry book chapter that night made her want to reenact the scenes with him? Would she ever tell him that she wanted him to kiss her that day when she'd used the 'something in her eye' excuse to get him to approach her in the surgery prep room? Would she ever tell him that every once in a while when he'd lock his brilliant blue eyes on hers—even as recently as a week ago—that she felt like swooning?

No, she wouldn't. If her failed dalliance with Hawkeye was any indication, she wouldn't be making that same mistake again.

* * *

A/N: Feedback is always welcome! If you aren't sure of what to say, here are some sample questions you can answer: What do you think of the exposition as opposed to solid action/reaction-type chapters? Are the characters in character? Does the dialogue flow well? Thanks for your help!


	6. Swamp Barbs

A/N: Thank you thank you thank you for the helpful feedback! It may lead to a rearrangement of things to happen in this story—but for now, it helped me get this next chapter out very fast! Sorry about the relative shortness of this chapter compared to the last few—this story is going to be a long haul but it shouldn't get boring!

* * *

**CHAPTER 6 – SWAMP BARBS**

Maybe Margaret just wanted to talk, Winchester reasoned, as he stood in the center of the compound with hands in his pockets, trying to figure out what to do. Was it not possible, now that she was sober, for her to simply share her thoughts with him across a table like a civilized human being?

He glanced up at the sky, which was packed with white clouds, their gray shadows giving them some texture. Not only was the sun was nowhere to be seen, but the temperature was downright frigid. The winds whipping across the mountains were enough to chill him to the bone. He decided to retire to the Officers Club for something to warm his innards.

Upon entering the Officers Club, Winchester was met with the sight of Pierce, Hunnicutt and Potter sitting together at one of the jeep-tire tables. Was there no place in this hellhole he could truly unwind?

"You missed lunch, Charles," Hunnicutt commented. "What's eating you?"

"I would argue that it was us," Pierce replied. "They _were_ serving petrified pork today."

"That wasn't pork," Igor interrupted, from behind the bar. "That was rice."

"Sounds like I missed out on quite the banquet," Charles deadpanned as he took his seat two tables away from the group. "Igor, make it a cognac—a double, if you will."

Potter was the one to speak up with his gruff voice.

"You better not get too tipsy yet, Major. Lots of shelling going on all around us. I wouldn't be surprised if we got another wagon of wounded. You need to be ready to work at the drop of a hat."

"Igor, make that a double _standard_," Winchester called to the bartender. Colonel Potter shot Winchester an evil eye as Igor approached Winchester's table, handing him his glass of cognac.

"With all due respect, Colonel, I doubt anybody else will come in tonight," Igor cut in. "Heard there's a big snow coming in, with freezing rain following. The roads will be shut down for sure."

"I heard we were getting three inches of snow overnight, which isn't nearly enough to shut down the roads," Potter replied. "Didn't hear anything about freezing rain either."

"Don't worry about him, Colonel," Pierce said. "If he's as good with predicting weather as he is at satisfying our hunger, you can expect to see the truck of wounded pulling up anytime."

"I'm just saying—I have it under a very reputable source," Igor explained. "He's five for five, you know. You know that downpour we had last week? He called it, even though it was predicted we'd only get a drizzle."

"And who would this weatherman be?" Potter asked, his face stern.

"Sergeant Rizzo."

"The head of the motor pool?" Winchester replied with a scoff of disbelief. "He's nothing but a fraud, a classic swindler."

"That may be so, but the man knows his weather. Go and ask him. He'll tell you three days' weather—for a price."

"Aha. _There's_ the catch," Charles said with a chortle. "I will not condescend to speak with that clown of a con artist."

Winchester sipped his cognac, savoring the sweet heat it produced in his throat. The drink was exactly what he'd needed to stave off the cold.

"If it's true, how do you think he knows?" Hunnicutt asked the men sitting with him. "Some kind of bayou voodoo?"

"Maybe he's a modern Kekulé, and it's revealed to him in his dreams," Pierce said.

Frowning deeply, Winchester muttered a reply under his breath.

"He certainly allocates enough time to those."

* * *

Upon entering the Swamp, Pierce almost walked into Winchester's flannel blanket, which was hung on a line strung across the entirety of the room. A running fan was aimed at it, but the fan hadn't made much progress drying the thick fabric.

"What the heck is this?" he said, pushing the offending object out of his face. Winchester's soaked flannel blanket had made quite the sizable puddle in the center of the room. With a scoff of irritation, Pierce sat down on his cot, staring at the wet object.

Winchester soon followed Pierce into the room. He did not so much as blink at the sight of his blanket, taking a seat on his bed and idly thumbing through his record collection.

"What's the deal with your blanket, Charles?" Pierce grumbled, gesturing to the oversize blanket and the puddle below. "The Swamp is bad enough as it is, and now you go and turn it into an _actual_ swamp."

"You should feel right at home then," Charles replied smugly without looking up from his record search.

"Ha ha," Pierce retorted. "That was almost a good one."

"Don't say that," Charles hissed, glaring up from his task. "I do not wish for my humor to descend to the level of you heathens."

"It already passed us on its way down," Pierce replied. "Probably bored a hole through the bottom of your little pond by now."

Winchester had nothing more to say and instead removed the Tchaikovsky record from his phonograph, placing on it instead Rachmaninoff's Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. As soon as the stylus made contact with the record, Pierce stood up, disappointment on his face.

"It's amazing—for a second there it was almost like you were normal, and then you go and do something like this," he said, gesturing to the phonograph.

"It's Rachmaninoff," Winchester merely replied. He sighed heavily. "I cannot blame you for your inability to derive enjoyment from it. The subtleties and complexities of it are absent to your amateur ear."

"Ever hear the phrase 'ignorance is bliss?'"

"That's inapplicable in this instance. This is the kind of music that will be around for eternity. It will never die."

"Nah, it only _feels_ like eternity. And your second claim is completely wrong. This music has already died. Rachmaninoff will never compose again; in fact, he's _de_composing as we speak."

Winchester rolled his eyes dramatically at the quip.

"I pity you, Pierce, for all that you have been forgoing."

"You and Rachmaninoff have convinced me, Charles. Now I'm all for going!" Pierce stood by the door, looking back at his bunkmate, at the puddle, then back at him again. "If Rizzo's forecast is right, I might even be bedding down elsewhere. The nurses' bunks are much less drafty."

Winchester scoffed. "As if you would know."

"What about you? You gonna suffer through the snowy night under a damp blanket?"

"It is well on its way to drying," Charles assured him. At the sight of the flannel blanket, he knew it was a blatant lie. He hadn't even considered the thought that he'd be sleeping sans blanket in the frigid Korean winter. Suddenly the thought struck him—his 10 pm rendezvous with Margaret. The timing of it all was impeccable, as if she'd been planning it all along. He barely managed to stifle a smile.

"You gotta be kidding me. That thing is closer to freezing solid than it is to drying out," Pierce remarked. He opened the door to a gust of frigid air filling the tent. "I better go warn B.J. that he's gonna have to listen to your teeth chattering all night. Then again, compared to your actual voice, your _teeth_ merely chattering would be a welcome change."

"Ha. Not if I can help it, they won't," Winchester retorted flatly, a pleased little grin appearing on his face. Though Pierce had been actively leaving the tent, the dark-haired doctor stopped in place, suspicion in his eyes. Winchester bit his tongue a moment too late.

"Don't even think about borrowing my blanket," Pierce shot.

"I wouldn't dream of sleeping in such tatters," Winchester replied, his smile remaining. "And I certainly wouldn't want to deprive the bedbugs of their acquired taste for _platelet du Pierce_."

"Then why do you look so damn pleased with yourself?" Pierce's eyes were narrowed as he glared down his pompous bunkmate. Winchester's smile grew at his question.

"Because I am," Winchester retorted.

"Nah, it's more than that. I can tell. Look at you; you're blushing."

Winchester reached down and picked up a record. Saying nothing, he removed the Rachmaninoff record and replaced it with his earlier Tchaikovsky record. Pierce stood in place as Winchester moved the arm to the first groove. Without so much as looking in Pierce's direction again, Winchester shut his eyes and clasped his hands in his lap.

"You can't even sit still," Pierce cried, shaking his finger at the reclining man. "You've changed that record three times in ten minutes. That's a record for records."

Winchester shot Pierce an innocent little grin.

"So?"

"I'm gonna find out what you're up to; mark my words."

The balding major let out an amused chuckle.

"I fail to perceive how my marking your words will aid in your learning my evening itinerary."

So Winchester had an _itinerary_. This was new. Pierce took a step into the tent, his voice a mere murmur as he put a hand to the side of his mouth.

"Are you telling me that that cologne of yours actually did the trick?"

Charles's smile was positively mischievous.

"Yes, and quite effectively, I might add."

"Really." Pierce was doubtful.

"Course, Pierce. I could spare a spritz or two, if you'd like to try your luck."

"You mean, there's still some left after today?"

Winchester rolled his eyes. Pierce was not finished. He narrowed his eyes at his bunkmate.

"How do I know you're not lying? I haven't seen anyone lingering around here for you."

Charles stood up, adjusting the collar of his coat with care.

"That's because discretion is the better part of valor. I wouldn't expect a loquacious lothario such as yourself to understand such a novel concept."

"Damn—four years of medical school and I _still_ failed to catch your meaning, Charles."

"_Videre videnda_, my uneducated colleague," Winchester stated with a satisfied little smile.

"If that language wasn't dead already, you just killed it, Charles. Now could you repeat that in plain English?"

"Certainly not. All I can advise in the case of your failing to catch my meaning is the use of a bigger net, preferably one constructed of well-read dictionaries and classical literature."

"Yeah. And better yet, I can use it to catch the mosquitoes your little swamp will draw!"

"Mosquitoes, in winter? An exceedingly rare phenomenon, if ever it has occurred."

"Then what bit me on my back last night?"

"That would be the precise reason that you will never have to worry about me borrowing your blanket."

* * *

A/N: Opinions on dialogue? Characterization? Et cetera?


	7. Table Games

**CHAPTER 7 – TABLE GAMES**

Dinner was held at its usual time in the mess tent, and Charles was now hungry enough to appreciate the sustenance it would give him. Besides, he had to keep his strength up for whatever was to come later.

After getting his food, Winchester sat down across from Pierce and Hunnicutt, who were in the midst of a debate, being as the corn resembled some kind of garden beetle.

"I'll bet potato beetles taste better than whatever they call this," Hunnicutt remarked with a frown.

"Why do you think they're called potato beetles?" Pierce responded. "It's probably because they taste like potatoes."

"We should rustle us up some grubs," Hunnicutt said, all smiles now. "They'd be more flavorful than this—and _far_ juicier. Where do you think we should start looking, Hawk?"

"Charles here has done us the favor of converting the Swamp to an actual swamp, so the mosquito larvae should be coming up in the spring."

"What about your little bed buddies, Pierce?" Charles remarked dryly. "A chitin-encased vial of your digested blood would be a very attractive entrée; wouldn't you agree?"

"Aw, can't you see I'm trying to eat, Charles?" Hunnicutt huffed in a greatly exaggerated manner. "That kind of talk just turns my stomach."

* * *

"Per your concern, they're no longer tenants of mine," Pierce commented to Charles. "They've pooled their funds and can now afford the rent for the Winchester Arms."

Winchester's jaw dropped.

"You wouldn't—"

Pierce's smile was positively devious.

"Wouldn't I?"

Charles spoke sharply, his voice grave.

"I thought you'd have enough common decency to keep your lice to yourself."

"I'm confused; do decent humans have lice?"

At that, Winchester stood and slammed his tray down on the table.

"You are utterly infuriating! I cannot stand sitting here with you uncouth cretins!"

"Of course you can't stand sitting," Hunnicutt remarked with a shrug. "You can't sit standing either."

"I have had it!" Winchester roared. "I'll make the Swamp so miserable you'll stay away at all costs."

"Can't afford that yet or else we would've done that already," Pierce shot, a big toothy grin on his face.

Winchester's face turned red with fury and he stepped over the bench seat, storming off to sit at an uninhabited table.

"Chuckie's touchy today, isn't he?" Hunnicutt commented, after Major Winchester was out of earshot.

"Something's going on with him," Pierce replied. "He's wound up like a spring. I get the idea that he has Swamp-free plans for his evening slumber."

"You're kidding," Hunnicutt replied. "Why would that be? Wait; lemme guess—did he spill his cologne in the Swamp?"

Just then Margaret entered the mess tent.

"Hey, Margaret; feeling any better?" Pierce asked. Winchester turned to look, noticing that she didn't look any different than usual. She was wearing her usual clothing and her face didn't look red from crying, so why had she stayed away all day? More importantly, had she forgotten what she'd commanded of him?

"I'm fine," she replied curtly, glancing around the room. For a short moment her eyes locked with Charles's. Feeling a cough coming on, he turned around abruptly and took a sip of water.

"The special of the day is pasta _al dente_," Pierce explained in a fake Italian accent, scooping up a rigid rigatoni.

"Well, that doesn't sound so bad," Margaret replied.

"Yeah, but the _dente_ refers to what it'll do to your teeth."

"I should have known," she commented, rolling her eyes.

* * *

Charles watched Margaret out of the corner of his eye as she moved her filled tray to the beverage area and poured herself a cup of coffee. It was far too late in the evening for so much caffeine, unless…

His shoulders fell as she strode directly to Pierce and Hunnicutt's table and sat with the two surgeons. Soon afterwards, Colonel Potter and Father Mulcahy joined them. Winchester was all alone at his table, the only one in the mess tent that wasn't full of chatting people.

"Winchester, what are you doing sitting over there by your lonesome?" Potter called out, noticing how irritated Charles looked.

"Ask Pierce and Hunnicutt," Winchester replied through his teeth, not even bothering to turn around to address his C.O.

"What is this all about, you two?" Potter asked the surgeons.

"He couldn't stand sitting here," Hunnicutt mumbled with a full mouth.

"Well, that makes sense," Father Mulcahy added. "It would be very difficult indeed to stand sitting."

The group laughed at their humor. Winchester scoffed. All together, his peers were a group of uneducated barbarians whose collective wit couldn't fill the bottom of a shotglass.

Muttering to himself, Winchester quickly finished up his meal and walked out of the tent, feeling quite edgy.

* * *

"Major Winchester."

He had almost reached the Swamp by this point, his hand reaching for the doorknob. Yet at the sound of a woman's voice, he spun around. It was Margaret standing before him, her arms crossed.

"Major Houlihan," he replied, his eyes downcast. It was difficult to look her in the eye after what she'd seen earlier today.

"I trust you haven't forgotten about our meeting."

He cleared his throat, wanting badly to loosen the collar of his green jacket.

"Uh, no, Madam," he muttered, fiddling with his collar. "I must inquire, however; how did you get away from the mess tent without arousing suspicion?"

"They think I'm gonna tell you off once and for all," she replied. He looked up for a moment, but at the sight of her face, allowed for his eyes to drop to the ground once again.

"How in the world did you keep them at bay?" he murmured, kicking a dirt clod. "I'm sure Pierce would have given his left leg to see me receive my just deserts."

"How do you think? I told them I'd give them a knuckle sandwich."

"Probably better than what was being served tonight ," he muttered.

"That's what Hawkeye said. Ugh, he's rubbing off on you," she replied with an exasperated sigh.

"I could be free from his influence if I were to bunk elsewhere, you know," he said smilingly, glancing up at her briefly with a raised eyebrow.

"They did listen to me, as you can see," she said, ignoring his last comment, "even though they were smart alecks about it."

She paused for a moment, noticing Winchester's disturbing lack of eye contact. Was he already becoming irritated with her? "Major, why can't you look me in the eye?"

"Ah," he said, keeping his head down but forcing himself to look at her face. "No reason, I assure you."

"There _is_ a reason. What is your problem?"

"It's nothing, Margaret." His eyes wandered on her face, unable to lock onto her eyes for more than a second or two at a time.

"You're lying," she fumed, temper ever-rising. "Tell me the truth."

He sighed with exasperation at the thought that he'd have to admit embarrassment. For some reason, only Margaret Houlihan had the ability to boss him around without any rejoinder from him. He'd always obeyed her without question, and now would be no different.

"I believe it's because no one has seen me… as you have," he murmured ever-so-quietly, his face reddening with shame.

"You mean, this morning?"

"Yes."

Margaret's insecurities blurted out of her. "It's not because you're sick of me then?"

"Goodness, no!" he replied too enthusiastically. At the awkward silence that followed, he thrust his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground with keen interest.

"Good, because there's more where that came from," she replied, attempting to justify the blatantly insecure question. His stomach flipped.

"I thought this evening would be about you," he murmured, swallowing loudly.

"Isn't it?" She pinched his arm, making him refocus on her. This time he allowed his eyes to lock with hers. He squinted apologetically.

"Of course… Madam."

* * *

Nine fifty-five pm. Only five minutes until the meeting with Major Houlihan. Winchester lingered near the mess tent to gather his thoughts, feeling gusts of snow swirling around him. The weather had called for the snowfall to begin this evening and to only continue for an hour or so, far less than what was needed to shut down the roads. Even so, it _had_ snowed more than he'd expected, already about three inches in an hour's time—but it was due to stop anytime now. It was rather cold and so he had put an additional coat on over his green military jacket and an intricately-knitted scarf around his neck. He left his childhood red toboggan cap back in the Swamp—it just didn't feel appropriate to wear such a hallmark of his boyhood to an adult meeting. His legs beneath the standard issue green trousers were the only region where he felt the draft of the icy winter air. However, he was glad that the heavy army boots the officers and enlisted men were expected to wear kept his feet relatively warm. The compound was empty under the darkness of night. What did Margaret have in store for him? To avoid suspicion with Pierce and Hunnicutt, he had not taken a second shower as he'd wanted to do, but he did comb his hair and use a bit of mouthwash. Suspicious, he looked around himself—where were they hiding?

And more importantly, what had brought about this change of heart in Margaret? Never had she given him a fair chance to impress her. Would tonight be his chance to do just that? Hopefully she'd give him a chance to woo her properly. He patted his coat with a little smile, knocking a light layer of snow off the garment in the process.

Margaret, meanwhile, paced back and forth in her tent. She'd have to find out about funeral plans for her father, if they hadn't already occurred, and give her sister a call. This rendezvous with Charles was a welcome distraction from thoughts of the man who had shaped her destiny by making her feel as if she always needed to strive harder. If Alvin Houlihan could only see her now, seducing a blue-blooded major with more funds than three generations of her own military family! Of course, this little affair with Charles was nothing more than a temporary distraction from the grieving process. He'd say something unbelievably arrogant, and things would go back to the way they'd always been. He'd been sweet to her during his tenure at the 4077th, but she didn't love him in the least. He was far too haughty and condescending for her to tolerate for very long.

Nine fifty-eight pm. Now standing before Margaret Houlihan's door, his well-read book of poetry surreptitiously tucked into the lining of his coat, Charles quickly scanned the surrounding area. No one was around, as far as he could see. Where the hell were Pierce and Hunnicutt? Did they expect him to be somewhere else? He barely stifled a smile. Of course they did. It would be impossible for them to even imagine the possibility of a nighttime rendezvous between spitfire Houlihan and the recipient of her two very public slaps. They'd certainly failed to believe he'd once had a date with Audrey Hepburn until he'd produced a picture of the occasion as irrefutable evidence of the dinner date. Of course, that date would be mild compared to what he believed Major Houlihan had in store.

He lifted his arm up, taking a deep breath and holding it as his knuckles rapped politely on the wood.

"Come in," a voice called from inside. The voice was unmistakably Margaret's. He swallowed as he turned the doorknob. What in the world was he getting himself into?

* * *

**A/N: I just wanted all you readers to know that this story has already been completely written and yet I like to take people's advice to heart (especially if it's similar between reviewers) and improve my story before posting the next chapter. Do know that this will not fall by the wayside as my other stories have-as long as people continue to read it and occasionally leave me much-needed feedback!**


	8. Strip Tease

**CHAPTER 8 – STRIP TEASE  
**

Upon entering Margaret Houlihan's tent, Charles could see that the table she usually kept in the center of her room was pushed off to the side, as well as other various clutter previously filling her room notably absent. Her bed was noticeably elevated compared to the usual height of a M.A.S.H. bunk, and noticeably higher than it had been the last time he'd been in her tent. Her room was quite warm, easily a full ten degrees warmer than the Swamp, and he immediately felt overdressed. It was then that he noticed the wood stove in the back of her tent and the faint scent of wood smoke. He swallowed once again, closing the door behind him.

He looked at her then, almost afraid to do so. She looked no different than usual, with her hair down in blonde waves, standing before him in her faded green fatigues. He did note that she had a dash of mascara on, for her eyelashes looked a bit thicker. So there was a possibility that this could be civil, that they could simply sit on her bed and talk….

"You're on time," she murmured, her tone emotionless. He took a deep breath, feeling a thick tension in the air.

"We Winchesters have always been known for our punctuality," he deadpanned, giving her a little self-satisfied smile as he thrust his hands in his pockets.

"Is that so," she replied, obviously not amused. "But enough with idle chitchat—"

"Enough? But we haven't chitchatted about anything," he replied, eyes agog. "We could talk about any number of things: fine dining, the opera, classical literature… that is, anything you'd like to discuss, Margaret."

"I'm tired of discussions," she said with a sigh. "Where has that gotten anyone?"

"Actually, discussions are a major factor in everything affecting our lives," he explained, as she looked utterly bored. "Where would we be had it not been for declarations and deeds, armistices and treaties, inventions and innovation, all brought about by open discussion—"

"The only thing I want to see open is your shirt, right now."

"What?" he stammered, caught off-guard. "I beg your pardon—"

"I thought I was pretty clear about wanting to see only _one_ thing open. Not another word, Major."

"But—"

With eyes widened in challenge, she pulled back her arm, as if to slap him. Immediately he shut his mouth. His fingers left his pockets, gingerly moving upward to his collar. Already he could feel his heart beating faster. Carefully he unwrapped his scarf from around his neck and placed it on the ground next to him. He took in the sight of the woman before him, commanding him to shut his mouth.

Margaret was no Donna Marie Parker, the woman he'd "married" after a medical conference in Tokyo. Donna had enjoyed conversing with him, had thanked him for his compliments, had returned his kisses with great fervor, had taken his hand as they'd retreated to the V.I.P. tent to consummate their unofficial marriage. The time that he could remember with Donna was perfection personified, their passionate kiss shared in the Swamp unfolding into the most memorable night of his life. Nothing, he reasoned, could trump that feeling, that unabashed joy he'd felt when their bodies united on that awkwardly small mattress under the roof of the V.I.P. tent. He still couldn't suppress a smile knowing what had occurred there over and over again during the course of that evening and night. The next day, at their unmarriage ceremony, he couldn't help but feel a sense of loss.

Unfortunately, those times were long past now, never to be seen again. And unlike Donna, Margaret was here right now, and she clearly wanted him. His countless failed attempts at romance with the blonde nurse during the infancy of his time at the 4077th were finally paying off, and yet, not exactly in the way he'd expected.

"Now your coat," Margaret ordered. He complied, slipping off the garment far too heavy for the climate inside Margaret's tent. Now he was in his jacket and shirt. He felt a chill go up his back, even though he was quite warm. Perhaps her commands were a way of getting him more comfortable without awkward chatting between his removing his coat and scarf. Smart girl. He sighed and smiled at her.

"The rest of your layers, Major."

She wanted to see him literally shirtless? He could feel his face heating up as he slipped the jacket off of his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. Now his shirt was the sole garment keeping the flesh of his upper body concealed from the blonde nurse. He wasn't sure what to do with his hands, and ran them up his legs in preparation for something rather odd—stripping in front of a woman.

"Is there a problem?" Margaret asked, her voice stern. "I could always cut your shirt off, just like an O.R. patient."

"No problem at all," he heard himself say. Immediately he squinted, awaiting her wrath, but it didn't come.

"I warmed it up in here for a reason. Take off your shirt."

He hesitated, staring at her with pleading eyes.

"May I say something?" he meekly asked, his face and neck quite a shade of red, sweat beading on his forehead.

"Make it quick."

"I was under the impression that you would be…"

"Would be what?"

"The focus… which, in its very nature would not entail _my_ disrobement…."

"If you don't want to do this, I'm not forcing you to stay here," she snapped back irritably, crossing her arms across her chest. "The door is open."

"Open?" He spun around quickly, realizing that what she had said wasn't literal. At sight of the closed door, he sighed. Sheepishly, he turned back around to face her.

"So… what'll it be?" she asked, staring him down.

His hands moved to the lower hem of his shirt and raised the fabric upwards inch by inch. Unable to lift his eyes above the level of her legs, he slipped the shirt off over his head and dropped it beside him. He cleared his throat in the awkward silence that followed, thrusting his hands into his pockets.

"Those too," Margaret commanded, pointing at his boots. He squatted down to remove them, noticing that she was still wearing her shoes. So it wasn't for the sake of indoor cleanliness—she was having him strip for some other purpose altogether.

Once his shoes were pushed out of the doorway, he stood before her in his trousers and socks, feeling unbelievably awkward. Here he was, almost completely undressed in front of a fully dressed army woman. Though he was far bigger than her in both size and strength, he felt vulnerable and completely at her mercy. It was a very odd feeling to deal with at the moment and not only that; it directly conflicted with the ego he had built around himself. He had almost been the head thoracic surgeon at Boston General and was the _summa cum laude_ of Harvard Medical School as well as a Major in the United States Army Medical Corps and now he was half-undressed in front of a woman who couldn't even qualify for the D.A.R.. Yes, a very odd situation he was exposing himself to. He could turn around right now—well, first collecting his shirt, jacket, coat, boots, and scarf—and retain his dignity. Was temporary gratification of a sexual nature worth this kind of degradation?

Just then Margaret took a step towards him, her hands at his waistline, staring intently at something at that level. He stood planted in place as her hands grabbed his belt buckle, sliding the belt out from the buckle and yanking it quickly through his belt loops. He gasped, and then attempted to save face by coughing, his eyes focused on the top of her head.

Rather than snap the belt in her hands as she'd done with her own belt earlier in the day, Margaret dropped the object and moved to the button of his trousers. He made a kind of guttural sound at this development, a strained sound from deep inside his throat, as she unfastened the button and unzipped the zipper.

As soon as all the blood had left his brain, he decided: yes, the gratification was worth the degradation. This was Major Margaret Houlihan he was considering, the woman he'd had a tentative eye on ever since he was dumped in this hellhole. He was finally getting a chance to seduce her properly—not that he was anywhere near doing that at the moment, of course.

"Does your door lock?" he asked her, his voice thick. It seemed as if his sharp wit and sarcastic prose had been swept away along with all higher brain function. She stopped what she was doing, glaring up at him with fire in her eyes.

"People know to knock before entering my tent," she replied haughtily.

"But is that enough assurance that someone won't stop by if they hear something disconcerting?"

"It locks," she replied huffily. "Just turn the deadbolt."

Without moving his body, Winchester reached behind him to set the deadbolt. Once they'd heard the click, she continued her mission. He could only gasp and look down wide-eyed as his pants fell in a pile on his feet. He was standing before a fully clothed woman in a pair of tiny shorts which felt rather tight on him at the moment. Clearing his throat, he clasped his hands over the region of his groin, feeling almost unbearably vulnerable and painfully self-aware. What was she going to do?

Margaret couldn't believe she'd gotten this far with Major Winchester without him refusing or making excuses to leave. She had never before taken in this image of the Boston-born surgeon, and feasted her eyes on his body.

Winchester's chest was covered in fine light-colored hair, his paunch protruding but solid. He was, in fact, in better physical shape than she'd expected, though he wasn't nearly as muscular, hairy, or beefy as her ex-husband Donald Penobscot. It was a very different dynamic with Charles, who had very little hair on top of his head but plenty on his chest, stomach and legs. Though his shoulders were wide, his hips were narrow, leading to a set of surprisingly long, lean, muscular legs. In fact, his legs were longer and more muscular than Donald's. Now that he was essentially disrobed, his startling blue eyes were more obvious now than ever—or maybe it was because he was gaping at her wide-eyed all the while. At any rate, she found herself unable to look away.

As Margaret blatantly eyed him head to toe, Charles found himself becoming increasingly flushed, his breathing now shallow and fast. It was as if she'd given him amphetamines, for every vital sign was increased. He could hear his pulse racing in his ears, his respirations ever-quickening, sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

"Margaret, is there something that I—"

"Shh," she cautioned.

"Why am I prohibited from speaking?" he asked, sounding almost whiny. "I do recall my recitation of that chapter so long ago stirring something within you."

"That's because you weren't talking about _you_," she flatly replied, ire building in her. By this point, Donald or Frank would have been ready to pounce on her. Charles, in the meantime, was clearly stalling. The thought of the man who had pleasantly surprised her with his little kink earlier in the day as being presently unwilling to obey orders was a thorn in her side. Charles was turning out to be more like Hawkeye than she cared to admit—neither could follow through.

"Ah, so you enjoy my voice when I'm not speaking of myself," he replied.

"When you're able to leave your ego out of the conversation, I enjoy your voice."

"Fine," he asserted. "I shan't speak a word that entails my ego, as you call it."

"Do you swear?"

"Do I _swear_?" he began, chuckling nervously. "By swearing, how long are you proposing I remain unable to—"

"As long as I tell you to," she said with a devious grin. Perhaps he could hold out for the night, but he'd surely fail this soon. It was guaranteed that the pompous surgeon couldn't keep up the façade for long.

"Ah, and what, pray tell, would befall me if I should let said ego slip into the conversation?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out. So, is it a deal?"

"So you are avowing to me that I may be permitted to speak this evening, as long as it's not about myself."

"As long as your ego stays out of the conversation, Major. That's entirely different than you speaking of yourself. Most of us mere mortals can speak of ourselves without coming across as arrogant. It's called humility."

"Right. Humility." He glanced down at his exposed body. "In all honesty, I feel rather humbled already."

"Is it a deal?" she repeated, extending her arm for a handshake. Charles looked at her for a moment and then extended his hand. Only after they'd made their deal did he realize he'd uncovered what he'd been concealing behind his hands. Margaret's look of interest at the sight of his shorts made the blunder less awkward. Even so, he was perplexed at the turn this evening had taken.

"May I read some passages to you, Margaret?" he asked. "I should like to set the mood, as it were."

"In your boxer shorts and socks?" she replied with a scoff.

"Close your eyes if you must," he murmured.

"What is this so-called passage, Major?"

With that, he squatted down and retrieved a stack of papers from his coat. It was not his book of poetry, but it was familiar to her. He stood up and grinned at her, holding out the papers.

"The Rooster Crowed At Midnight, chapter three?" she murmured. "Where did you get this?"

"Hunnicutt's foot locker," he replied with a naughty grin, as she handed him back the papers. "The man never throws a thing away. So how about it, Major? May I continue where we left off?"

"And here, I thought you were going to read me poetry," she murmured. "I saw the book when you took off your coat."

His eyes went wide.

"In that case, I would gladly—"

"No," she replied quickly. "I think I'd rather hear you speak of the trysts of Jessica and Randolph."

She smiled broadly at him in his silly getup and he couldn't help but smile back in spite of himself.

* * *

"Awful quiet around here, isn't it?" Hawkeye murmured as he leaned against the wall on a chair in the Officers Club. "I can almost hear myself think."

"Where do you think Charles is?" B.J. replied. "I didn't see him at the Swamp tonight. Didn't see him by the showers either."

"I asked about half a dozen nurses, but so far, I haven't found one captivated by his cologne—or, at least, willing to admit it."

"Is that what he said? That his _cologne_ got him a date?"

"Yeah. Can you believe it? He seemed so certain; it was hard not to believe him."

"When is he _not_ certain?" Hunnicutt commented with a shrug. "He's even certain in cases when there _is_ no way to be certain."

"True, but this was different, Beej. I've never seen him so—I don't know—smitten, maybe? Couldn't sit still for more than a minute or so, with a big grin plastered on his face."

"You're kidding me, Hawk. Charles, acting like a giddy schoolboy?"

Hawkeye shrugged. "Maybe this woman can put up with his speeches. He's probably gassing his date right now with that cologne of his so he can talk to her afterwards with no interruptions or judgment."

"It'd be the best kind of date for Charles," Hunnicutt replied with a grin. "Letting him do all the talking."

"Second only to a date with his mirror."

They both shared a good laugh over the thought of that, until B.J.'s curiosity got the better of him.

"Are you sure that he's not just somewhere nursing his wounded pride? I'm sure you remember Margaret storming out after him. I wished we could've followed her."

"Yeah, I didn't hear her slap him again, but then again, he retreats like a pro," Hawkeye commented. "Probably got well out of earshot by the time the slap landed."

"I wonder who the lucky woman is, if he is on some kind of date," B.J. remarked with a smile. "I didn't even catch a glimpse of him after he left the Mess Tent. There aren't any visiting nurses, so it'd have to be one of our own."

"Wait a minute—could the lucky woman be Margaret?" Hawkeye blurted, his eyes widening. He glanced over at B.J., who looked unconvinced and faintly smiling. "Nah," he muttered, though he didn't look totally certain.

"Man, she really has it out for him," B.J replied. "I almost feel sorry for him. All he did was voice the opinion everyone had regarding her father."

"He didn't have to say it, though. Just bad timing on his part. How could he not know better than that?"

"Maybe he did it on purpose," B.J. muttered. "He certainly got a rise out of her."

"Yeah, not too many can say they got slapped by her twice, me included," Hawkeye replied.

"Well," B.J. added, "if the majors are in the midst of some passionate fling, they certainly have plenty of passion from her end, at least."

"Margaret and Charles?" Hawkeye muttered, clutching his forehead dramatically. "Say it ain't so!"

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for my reviewers of the last chapter! I'm really thankful for you guys! I hope all you readers are interested to see what comes next and if you have any kind of feedback for me, good or bad, please let me know! I'm making up a continuance of "The Rooster Crows At Midnight" so I hope you'll be just as eager to read it as the M*A*S*H people all were in the season 6 episode "The Light That Failed!" **


	9. Weather Or Not

**CHAPTER 9 – WEATHER OR NOT**

The conversation between Hawkeye and B.J. in the Officers Club was thwarted by the sound of the door slamming and a blizzard-like wind. In walked Sergeant Rizzo, looking to be half-drunk already. Most likely he was simply groggy from just waking up from his usual position under an Army jeep. The hard caking of snow on the front of his pants confirmed this—yeah, he had been sleeping face-up with only his legs exposed to the elements.

"Either of you boys wanna know tonight's forecast?" he asked in his guttural Cajun accent. "Three bucks gets you three days' weather."

"I only have to look at you to know the weather," Pierce said with a sneer.

Rizzo glared at the tall doctor suspiciously. "What are you talkin' about? You some kind of mind-reader or somethin'?" he murmured.

"Yes I am," Pierce replied. He shut his eyes dramatically, holding his hands out in front of him. "I am seeing—a picture of snow."

"What the hell? How did you do that?" Rizzo blurted, utterly startled.

"I'm not a rocket scientist, if that's what you're thinking. It's all over your pants."

Confused for a moment, Rizzo stared at Pierce then looked at his pants, which were covered in snow. He slowly shook his head.

"Lookin' at my pants won't hep you predict tomorrow's weather or the next," he explained in his slow Louisiana drawl. "Three bucks and I'll tell ya."

Hunnicutt spoke up, feigning interest.

"Would that be three bucks for both of us or each of us?"

Rizzo stroked his chin, thinking for a moment. "Three per person. That makes six for the two of you."

"You do realize that whatever I find out, I can just pass on to him," Hunnicutt explained.

"Yeah, and he'll be three bucks richer 'n you," was the gruff reply.

"But what if we split the difference?" Pierce asked. Rizzo scratched his head, looking irritated.

"Don't make me think so hard so close to my wakeup time. Three bucks for three days' weather. Take it or leave it. It's my best deal yet."

"What do you mean by three days' weather, anyway? Are we gonna get two buckets of water dumped on us for two days' worth of rain?"

"Ah ah ah," Rizzo chided, shaking his finger in Hawkeye's face then holding out his grease-covered hand. "Pay, and I'll say."

"We already heard from one of your subscribers, a person who shall remain anonymous, that it's snow and freezing rain tonight," Pierce replied.

"My subscribers?" Rizzo muttered to himself, staring off into space. "You mean, people who paid me to know the weather?"

"Yes, Rizzo. The very ones."

Just then the short sergeant slammed his fist on the table, making several people in the Officers Club jump in their seats.

"Dammit, Igor!" he raged. "Can't you keep your mouth shut?"

* * *

"Now, let's see," Charles Winchester began, as he sat side-by-side with Margaret Houlihan on her bed. "At which sentence should I begin?"

"Start here," she indicated, pointing at a passage on the paper. "I think that's the sentence where I cut you off last time. I never actually finished reading this chapter, you know."

"I'm glad for that. If you'd like, Margaret, you can lie back as I read. You needn't sit at such an awkward angle," Charles told her. "How about adding more fuel to the fire before I begin? Otherwise, I could get re-dressed and—"

"I'd certainly like to add more fuel to the fire. You stay just how you are," she remarked, standing up. Within several moments, she sighed. "There's only one log left," she muttered. "Ah, well, I can get more later." With that, she tossed the log into her stove and sat back down next to Charles.

"Alright," he said, flashing her a boyish grin. With that, he began reading the chapter to her in his silky voice, his diction impeccable. "_In her mind's eye, Jessica saw him aflame with passion. Unable to bridle his all-consuming lust, he moved towards her, nearer and nearer, the scent of his perspiration a potent pheromone gravitating her towards him in kind. Her heart about to explode, she pictured their bodies colliding in the starlit darkness of the gardens. She could hear the owls in their cozy far-off perches mournfully hooting cries of envy as she and Randolph united in the night, their primal screams echoing off the rolling hills of the estate."_

He paused for a moment, glancing over at Margaret to see her closing her eyes, a smile of pure delight on her face. He couldn't break this moment and so continued the chapter, having smartly decided to keep the pages slightly elevated above his lap as he read. It had been a clever decision. This kind of talk was getting him more worked up than he would ever have admitted.

"_To imagine their bodies intertwined in this embrace of passion, Jessica found herself panting with exertion in the privacy of her boudoir, the delta betwixt her thighs hot and throbbing for her Randolph. She stood at the window, imagining him standing before her, eyes locking on hers, blue on blue, raw lust emanating from his every pore as he ravaged her naked body with his eyes."_

At this, he turned his head ever so slightly to find Margaret looking his way. His breath caught in his throat as their eyes locked, the intensity of their gaze was enough to spark a fire. Briefly he lowered his gaze to her chest and the curve of her hips unfortunately adorned in her Army fatigues, clearing his throat before again focusing on the paper in his hands. He could feel her eyes boring into the side of his face as he spoke the titillating lines.

"_However, Jessica wanted all of him, a rapture that could not be afforded in the wake of Lord Cheevers' murder. She craved the smoothness of Randolph's voice, the musky taste of his sweat, the coarseness of his full lips against her silken petals—_"

"Major."

He looked over at her with surprise at her interruption, his eyes wide as he attempted to read her expression.

"Tell me; does that mouth of yours do more than talk?"

He almost swallowed his own tongue.

"Of course… but don't you want to hear about your—I mean,_ Jessica's_ silken—"

She stopped him in mid-sentence by putting a finger to his lips.

"Let's reenact, shall we?"

To know that his own voice was a kind of foreplay was quite satisfying, and he sat, unsure of what to do next. This was a new kind of experience for him—until now, Margaret had been the aggressor, and now it seemed that she was letting him take the reins. This adjustment would take a little time but it could be accomplished.

Before he could say or do anything, Margaret ran a finger from his knee along his bare thigh until it reached the edge of his shorts. He swallowed, his eyes locked on hers.

"Does this mean you're going to disrobe?" he asked her, his voice very small. Was it possible that they'd soon be even in terms of exposed skin? He rather hoped so.

Her smile was both teasing and coy. She licked her lips and he felt a jolt beneath the fabric of his meager remaining garment. She'd certainly earned her nickname of Hot Lips Houlihan.

"You first."

Confusion filled his features as he stared into space, and then looked down at his remaining article of clothing hidden beneath the stack of papers, his eyes wide as he did so. When his eyes met hers, they were full of disbelief.

"I am far more… disrobed than you are, Major. In fact, you are fully dressed."

She stuck out her bottom lip as if pouting.

"Can I not admire you while you work?"

"Ha, admire _me_," he said with a scoff. "Your body is far more worthy of praise and admiration than mine, and yet, you're still completely covered."

"I was under the impression that this night was supposed to be about me," she remarked bitterly.

"Of course, Margaret. It's only that I fail to comprehend what pleasure you derive from seeing me in such a state."

"That's simple—you can't be arrogant and naked at the same time."

"A grave untruth, Major," he replied in a chiding tone, though a knowing smile remained on his face. "It is my rational mind and not my state of undress that dictates the many facets of my personality. Besides," he added with a shrug, "I won't be talking."

He promptly shut his mouth as he watched her slip out of her green button-up jacket, eyes growing ever wider as her shirt was removed, her top half now only adorned with a black bra.

"That's more like it," he murmured with a little growl of interest, after she'd paused for a few seconds.

"Now it's your turn," she stated. His face immediately blanched as he looked down at his shorts.

"Jessica and Randolph were equals," he commented, gaping back up at her. "As of this moment, we are not."

"Fine," she said, standing up and unbuckling her pants, slipping her feet out of her boots. In a moment she stood before him clad only in undergarments. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of Margaret Houlihan standing before him in a black bra and underwear, her hands on her hips.

"You're magnificent," he muttered, feeling rather unworthy of such a prize. Had he known this would have been his reward had he allowed her to boss him around, he would have done so far earlier in his stay at the 4077th.

With that, she strode towards him in her undergarments with a seductive grin on her face, putting a knee to one side of his legs and lifting her body up so that she was kneeling astride him. He could only gape up at her in stunned silence as the papers fluttered to the floor, her breasts at eye level.

"I now understand why the ancients carved statues, if only to forever capture the perfect symmetry and graceful form of the female body. And may I say, Venus de Milo and Aphrodite have nothing on you, Margaret."

She grinned at him, lowering her body so that she was now sitting on his lap, her heat intermingling with his own as he felt her smooth arms wrap loosely around his back in an attempt to keep her balance. He could feel her warm breath on his face and were it not for her grinning so toothily, he would have planted a kiss on those luscious lips of hers. Had it not been for their clothing, this kind of position was a valid one for _uniting_, as it were.

"What a long but perfectly wonderful compliment," she replied, her broad grin remaining. "But now, your shorts…."

He fidgeted awkwardly.

"I am not in a position to remove—"

"Right," she replied, quickly lowering one leg from the bed and once again standing before him. He was crestfallen at her renouncing her position on his lap.

"Please, Margaret," he murmured, his voice earnestly begging. "The only place I'm comfortable being completely disrobed is in the showers. I implore you; do not ask this of me."

"The door is locked and I'm in my lingerie." She gestured to her own body. "Is this not enough to get you to do what I ask? What would Randolph do?"

He pricked up an eyebrow.

"And is _Jessica_ going to follow suit, as it were?"

"Does that really matter right now? I thought you got your kicks from obeying me, Major."

"Ha—I'd rather forsake that argument for the moment and—"

"Do it. Shorts off. I want to take it all in."

His saliva went down the wrong pipe and he coughed several times in a moment of mild choking.

"Literally?"

"With my eyes first, Major. I never realized you had such a dirty mind. So, if you want to see where this goes, off with those shorts."

So it had come to this. His rendezvous with Margaret had amounted to nothing more than his almost disrobement and her outrageous commands of him. He estimated his time spent in her tent at an hour or so. The stripping and the passage-reading had been pleasurable enough, but now she was pushing him too far. Major Charles Emerson Winchester the third, completely in the nude with a woman still decently dressed? Utterly preposterous! It was unheard of for a man to disrobe before a woman had done so, especially a Winchester!

"Perhaps your throngs of enlisted men are comfortable with those kinds of demands, Major, but a Winchester does not and will not stoop to that level of depravity, at least not before _you_ remove your clothing first."

Her face turned ugly at his explanation. She viciously snatched a robe hanging from a hook on her closet as he recoiled from the sudden motion. Glaring at him, she quickly slipped the robe over her sparse clothing, tying it securely with its belt. This was not going to end well.

"_Throngs?_ What do you take me for, Major?"

He stammered for a moment, caught off-guard. He'd dug himself a hole that there was no way he'd get out of safely.

"Perhaps that wasn't the right word to use," he replied, stammering uncontrollably. "I only know that I am not the first to see your—"

"Ugh, just get the hell out of here!" With that she swung her blanket in the air, flinging it across the small room after it struck the fabric ceiling of the tent. A loud scraping noise filled the room as Charles grabbed his trousers, culminating with what sounded like a small avalanche outside the building. Both Charles and Margaret froze in place to gape up at the ceiling, following the sliding sound as it traveled from the center of the roof to the edges. Before she could fling another object, he quietly slipped his trousers on and adjusted his belt, bending over to fetch his other garments.

"This was one of my dumbest ideas to date, inviting you here! Now get out!" Margaret screamed, reaching around him to unlock the door and turn the doorknob to prepare for a quick exit. After he'd stood up holding the remainder of his clothes, she shoved him roughly up against the door, expecting it to open behind him and for him to stumble outside.

With an involuntary cry of pain, Charles recoiled as his head and shoulders slammed squarely against the door, forces wholly unpadded by his absence of hair and shirt, respectively.

"Why didn't it open?" Margaret raged, glaring at the still-shut door then at Major Winchester.

He gaped at her, eyes wide with shock, having dropped his remaining garments as his back struck the door painfully. Within a few moments his expression turned to that of disgust.

"I won't trouble you any further," he spat, turning around and facing the door.

He needed to get away from this psychotic woman, and fast. How could she have turned on him so strongly at his mere mention of the word 'throngs?' Was it really so wrong to point out an obvious fact about her past love-life? Without so much as putting his shirt back on and without hearing Major Houlihan's response, he turned the doorknob and pushed. The door didn't budge.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed! I tweaked it a bit based on your reviews, so I think it's improved from how it was before! Please review and let me know what you think, especially if you liked this chapter! Sorry for the angst, but it makes things more interesting, I think!**


	10. Door Circumstances

**A/N: Thanks to those of you who've been reading along and to those of you who've been providing me with feedback! I really appreciate it and it has made its way into this chapter! This is a pretty long chapter, by the way! Please be sure to read the notes at the end of this chapter!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 10 – DOOR CIRCUMSTANCES**

"Makes a good wall to keep out the wind, eh, Beej?" Hawkeye commented from his cot, as he and Hunnicutt admired their handiwork to protect the Swamp from the frigid icy rain and the snowy gusts. After returning from the Officers Club a while ago, they'd strung Charles's damp blanket over the netted front walls of the Swamp.

Hunnicutt stood up and moved to the blanket, lifting it up at the bottom to peek at the accumulation.

"Wow, Hawk, looks like it snowed more than half a foot out there!" he gasped, lifting the blanket high enough for Hawkeye to see the solid white behind it. "You ever see anything like that?"

"You forget that I'm from Maine," Hawkeye replied. "Never thought we'd be getting Crabapple Cove's usual winter weather."

"You mean, you're actually used to this?" Hunnicutt remarked. "I wish I had a camera so I could send a picture of this to Peg. I know Erin would be amazed."

"Course I'm used to this. When I was a kid, we'd go sled-riding in this kind of weather."

"It'd be hard to walk up a steep hill over and over again with that much snow," Hunnicutt commented, shaking his head at the pile that had formed outside the Swamp's front wall.

"What are you talking about? We only had to walk up it once."

"Huh? Did you have some kind of pulley to get you back up to the top or something?"

"Nah—we'd sled down once and spend the next half-hour or so digging ourselves out of the snow bank we'd run into until it was time for lunch. Ahh, memories."

B.J. smiled at his friend. "Sounds like I really missed out."

* * *

"Is this some kind of cruel prank, Major?" Winchester snarled, as he shoved the door with both arms in an attempt to open it. "Open this door this instant!"

"I already unlocked it, you nincompoop! Push harder!"

He shoved with all his strength against the door with no result.

"Don't toy with me, Margaret. Now, open this… incompetent door!"

"Are you kidding me? It's not the door—we're snowed in!" she shrieked. "Are you implying that I _willed_ the clouds to come here and dump a heap of snow on us?"

"Perhaps if we both push we can open it," Winchester huffed, frowning at the door. Without another word Margaret joined him and they both shoved on the door. It didn't so much as budge. She stepped back with a sigh of frustration, crossing her arms as she stared at the immobile door.

"Help!" Charles suddenly cried, slamming his fists on the door. "Get me out of here! I need help!"

"Keep it down," Margaret hissed. "I thought you wanted your dalliances kept secret."

"To hell with that!" he yelped, pressing his upper arms against the wood of the door as if attempting to embrace it. "I have to get out of here! Can anybody hear me out there? Save me!" Again he pounded his fists on the wood.

"Ha, go ahead and yell. You can hear the wind whipping around out there like a tornado. No way will they hear you. Kill your voice, for all I care."

"Let me out of here!" he roared, his fists thudding frantically on the door. "For the love of all that is holy, somebody save me!"

"Shut the hell up, Major!"

Suddenly, he felt a sharp tug at his waistline and he was being pulled away from the door with surprising force. He could have sworn that the lights had flickered, but it could have been due to the shock of the sudden grab.

"You are being ridiculous," Margaret growled, moving her hands to her hips. "You came here on your own volition and now you're acting like I kidnapped you. Stop being such a big baby. Sit down."

He looked about the room with a hopeless expression, so despondent that he didn't even notice that he hadn't put his shirt back on.

"Where?" he asked dully.

"Where else? On the bed. Looks as if we're stuck here for awhile, so I'm going to get—"

"Margaret, as I said before, I refuse to—"

She rolled her eyes at him as she interrupted him mid-sentence.

"Don't flatter yourself. I'm getting some champagne for myself."

"Champagne?" he sputtered.

"Yep. A 1947 Dom Pérignon."

His face lit up with mention of the expensive product.

"And from whom did you purloin that?"

"I'm no Winchester but I'm not destitute, Major. It was from my honeymoon. Didn't even open it."

"Ha—how could you not open a 1947 Dom—"

"Donald and I kept busy." A fierce blush crept across her face at the thought of their marathon _sessions_. "So do you want any? 'Cause I'm having some, whether or not you're going to."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his face as he answered her.

"I could not refuse such refinement."

"Well, sit down and let me open it," she replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. His eyes followed her as she squatted down by her foot locker, noticing the sheen of a corkscrew as she began twisting it into the cork. Perhaps this evening was not totally lost. Culture and class still remained in Margaret's tent, even though she herself failed to display it. He leaned over to her makeshift nightstand and picked up two fluted glasses. What a night this had turned into: a failed chapter reenactment turned into an occasion for vintage champagne!

* * *

"I'm gonna hit the latrines," Hawkeye commented, standing up in the Swamp and slipping on his burgundy robe. Hunnicutt looked up from a book he'd been reading.

"Better make sure no one's in them first."

The dark-haired doctor went to the door, turned the knob, and pushed. The door was stuck shut! This time he thrust his elbow into the wood, leading to a rather pained yelp. B.J. made a face of confusion.

"I thought you said you were going to hit the latrines, not the door, Hawk."

"It's frozen shut," Hawkeye explained, indicating the door as he rubbed his sore elbow. "Won't budge."

The mustached doctor shrugged, unaffected. "Run at it."

"From where? Three feet away? That's all I can manage in this cell."

"Couldn't hurt."

"The door, you mean. It'll hurt _me_ plenty, as it already has."

"Well, cut your way out. Netting in winter's gotta be good for something, eh?"

"You're a genius," Hawkeye replied, throwing his hands in the air. "Do you have a knife I could borrow?"

"Sure," B.J. replied. He put down the book and went to his foot locker, squatting down in front of the chest. Suddenly everything went pitch black.

"Did you cut the power?" Hawkeye's voice called out. "What happened?"

"I don't know. Maybe the snow dislodged some power-lines."

"Too bad we aren't as good with electric lines as we are with arteries," Hawkeye commented, shaking his head.

"Great," B.J. muttered, "so not only are we snowed in but we're also blacked out… until further notice."

Pierce pulled back Winchester's blanket to show the blizzard. "Well, you know what this means, Beej. We gotta check on the patients in post-op, stat!"

* * *

"Very funny, Margaret," came the voice of Charles in the pitch black tent. He took a languid sip of the champagne in his hand, hearing the characteristic fizzing of the beverage as he lifted it to his lips. The champagne was exceptional even at its suboptimal temperature, but that was most likely due to its vintage. "Now, if you please—"

"_I_ didn't do it!" she shot back, her voice followed by a thud and pained yelp as she evidently ran into something.

"Ugh, could this evening possibly get any worse?" Charles moaned, cupping his forehead with his free hand. Suddenly he felt Margaret's hand on his thigh and flinched at the unexpected touch. "Kindly unhand me, Maj—"

"I can't see," she interrupted. "Give me a second to sit down, dammit."

Soon the pressure of her hand was off of his thigh and he could sense her sitting down next to him on the bed, the fabric of her robe rubbing up against him.

"Where's the champagne?" he muttered, a bit frightened that it had toppled over during Margaret's journey over to the bed.

"It's safe, Major. I'm glad you're concerned about the safety of at least _one_ thing in my tent."

"What are you talking about?" he said with a chuckle. "You're fine. You know this place like the back of your hand."

"I moved some things around, if you'll recall," she replied bitterly, followed by the sound of her sipping from her glass.

"Ah, that's right."

He sat in silence, sipping the exquisite champagne in the pitch blackness. At sensing a chill run up his spine, he touched his chest to find that he hadn't put his shirt back on. What an odd occasion indeed this was.

"Oh, crap!" Margaret suddenly exclaimed. "The patients, Charles!"

"What of them—oh, the _patients_." He stood up with a start, hearing her standing up beside him. He stuck a hand out into blackness. "Mind the champagne bottle," he cautioned her.

"If I want to spill it, I'll spill it," she growled. "This is my tent."

"Indeed, but that would be an impetuous decision," he replied. "Champagne aside, we must get out of here, Margaret. For our sake and for the sake of the patients. Who will check on the patients if everyone is stuck in their respective tents?"

"Well, can you get to the door? You have more of a chance than I do of getting it open."

"I am not well-versed in the layout of your quarters, Margaret."

He felt a hand grab his forearm, as Margaret let out a sigh of frustration.

"Hold onto my back and I'll lead us to the door," she offered. Rolling his eyes in the blackness, he acquiesced, placing a hand on her back. Carefully he set his champagne glass on the nightstand, ensuring that the surface was there before letting go of the half-filled glass. She took a step forward as he prayed silently that the bottle of Dom Pérignon on the floor would stay upright throughout this whole fiasco.

"What about your windows?" he asked, remembering the small square windows of her room.

"They don't open," she replied. "They're made of this unbreakable double-pane plastic and even if we were to get them open or break them, I doubt either of us could fit through one."

"You might be able to slither those hips of yours through," he muttered lowly, the hand he had on her back relocating to the curve of her hip, his imagination running wild in the process. At the surprise and enjoyment of hearing no dissention from her, he continued to speak. "It'd be a tight fit to be sure. You'd probably have to disrobe and go through it head-first. Of course, I'd insist on holding a flashlight on you so you'd be aware of your positioning the entire time."

"Ha, not on your life," she said, smiling to herself. Major Winchester did have some very interesting ideas in that big head of his. "Besides, I don't think I even have a working flashlight or lantern—probably just a candle."

"A candle would suff—"

"No."

"I could very easily break a window, Major," he insisted. "And if you needed more lubrication to better slide through the window, I would gladly slather some lotion on your—"

"Don't you know the meaning of the word _no_?" she replied, grinning broadly though he couldn't see it. "Besides, you lost any chance of that earlier. All you had to do was take off your—"

"I'll do it now," he offered, his voice lilting upwards.

"You're only saying that because I can't see you anymore. You'll be dressed completely in black."

"But you'll know better, Margaret. I'll even let you hold my clothing as I rub lotion all over your—"

"Drop it," she retorted. She heard him take in a sharp breath and clarified her statement. "The subject, not your pants."

"I just thought of something," Charles muttered to himself as they took two steps without upsetting the bottle. "Pierce and Hunnicutt can get out of the Swamp even if the door is frozen shut. They can just cut through the netting. At least they'll be able to make it over to post-op, even if we can't."

"I hadn't thought of that," Margaret muttered. "While we're already here, we can try banging on the door and maybe they'll hear us. For now, I'm putting my uniform back on. You don't need to get any more ideas in that head of yours."

* * *

Hawkeye and B.J. trudged through the snowdrifts, which were more than a foot high at the base of the buildings and tents. A thick layer of ice coated the snow, making their walk a very loud, crunchy walk as their boots sank through the heavy layers of precipitation. Not only that, but the snow was still coming down like a blizzard, whipping around their heads and making normal conversation between them impossible. The lack of all lights on the compound made it very difficult to tell where they were going and thick gray clouds hid all evidence of the moon.

"I think I can find it by distance alone!" Hawkeye yelled out through the whipping winds.

"That makes one of us!" B.J. yelled back. "We'll probably have to dig the door out! It's probably going to be stuck shut like ours!"

"What a great way to prep my hands for the patients, by turning them into ice cubes!" Hawkeye shouted back.

"Do you think anyone else can get out of their tents to get to the patients?" B.J. yelled, his moustache and eyebrows completely frozen.

"Nah. I think we're all they've got! Except for Klinger, of course. Didn't think of him."

"What's he gonna do? They'd either need shots or IVs, and he hates needles!"

Pierce responded, his face covered with the sleeve of his robe to protect his face from the bitter winds as he tucked his icy hands inside the garment.

"Speaking of someone who needs shot, where do you think Winchester is?"

Hunnicutt shrugged, keeping his head low to avoid inhaling a gust of frigid air.

"He probably planned this all along so he wouldn't have to get his boots wet! Probably laughing his head off somewhere on this compound!"

* * *

"Help! Let us out of here! Anybody! Mayday!"

The fists of Majors Houlihan and Winchester thudded against the wood of the door, the edge of their hands occasionally striking the same area. At this, they would sigh and scoot away from each other until Charles was eventually not banging on the door; rather, the wall. He almost tripped on something soft and realized his clothes were still lying on the floor in a heap. Quickly he bent down to retrieve the articles.

"Hawkeye!" Margaret yelled. "B.J.! Are you out there?" Without even putting an ear to the door, the only thing she could hear was the sound of loud gusts of wind. She needed to be louder, to compete with the torrents of wind outside. With a loud indiscriminate yell, she pulled back her leg and kicked at the door, glad she'd slipped her steel-toed combat boots back on. Instead of her boot striking against the rigidity of the door, it connected with something far softer.

"Aughhhhhh!"

Two thuds soon followed: the sound of a large, soft object striking the door and the sound of something large collapsing on the ground. Margaret could faintly hear the sound of whimpering coming from a position near the floor.

"Major Winchester?"

Another whimper, followed by a choked sob. Margaret squatted down where she stood, stretching her arms out in front of her in the utter blackness. Her fingers touched bare skin, probably the side of Winchester's waist.

"Oh God; I think you broke my ribs," a quavering voice murmured, the breaths accompanying the speech ragged and uneven. "I can't—breathe."

"Calm down," she commanded, lightly moving her hand on his skin. "Where did I kick you?"

Within a moment his hand was on top of hers, guiding her to the spot. Once her hand had arrived at the place, she prodded for the presence of ribs.

"Aughhhh! What the hell are you doing?" he shouted in a hoarse voice, his hand grabbing hers and moving it away from the place. "If I wanted to stab my liver, I could do so myself, and far less painfully!"

"There aren't any ribs where I kicked you," she replied matter-of-factly. She heard him groan dramatically.

"Not anymore, there aren't!"

"Charles, listen. I think my foot landed right under your ribcage. I don't think any bones are broken, but I can check to be sure."

With that, she knelt down at his side and gently prodded the area where she'd inadvertently kicked him. For such a large man, he certainly surprised her time and time again with his need to be coddled. It was probably from all the spoiling he'd had as a child. She found herself humming like a mother would comfort a crying baby.

The strange events of earlier had been a test of the extent Charles Winchester would go to obey her. He'd certainly gotten further than she thought he would. Even so, he failed at the final step by not only refusing a reasonable request, but by insulting her in turn with a truthful statement. If her father had known how many generals and colonels she'd had to lie under to get where she was today, he'd be ashamed of her. The fact that Charles Winchester had pointed out her promiscuous past in such a callous and flippant way had hurt her more than she'd admit.

Even so, Winchester was now allowing her to coddle him—and coddling was her specialty. She could recall several of her jackets with the dried tears of Frank Burns on them. Her hands had gotten very strong from all the shoulder massages she'd give Major Burns when he was irritable or anxious. Needless to say, she was almost always comforting that man in some way.

"It's okay…. Shhh," she murmured soothingly. "Just a little pressure and I'll be all over."

It was then that Charles recalled that time when his back had gone out on him and he'd been laid up in the Swamp with Margaret tending to him for hours on end. She'd insisted on moist heat, placing damp washcloths on his lower back and later, even feeding him. It was absurd—he hadn't been treated like that since he was a teenager!

"I'm not an infant, Major," he muttered, attempting to move. She pushed her fingers into the flesh of his mid-abdomen and he whimpered.

"Shhhh. Everything will be alright. I know just the thing for this," she said quietly.

"A cold pack?"

There was a pause, and though it was pitch black, Charles could picture Margaret smiling in the darkness.

"Exactly," she replied. "It's a shame we can't open the door, because there's plenty of snow outside. Now, let's see… I don't think I have any water. What could I—right, I could wet a balled-up washcloth with a drop or two out of this bottle—"

His eyes widened at what she'd said.

"I hope you aren't referring to the Dom Pérignon, Margaret."

"The very thing."

"Surely you jest."

"No—just stay here, and I'm going to find a washcloth."

"I assure you; that won't be needed," he replied, reaching out in the darkness and clamping his hand on her wrist. "My pain is not worth the spilling of that most precious of commodities."

"We need to prevent the bruising because it's going to hurt for a while, Charles. What do _you_ recommend for pain relief, hmm?"

Charles slowly began to pull himself into a seated position with his back against the door, the acute throbbing dying down slightly. Perhaps something could be salvaged from this miserable night.

"I could drink the champagne," he murmured. "It'd be a very effective analgesic."

"I'm not letting you have the whole thing! You can forget about it, buster!"

"Mere moments ago, you were going to pour it out on a washcloth—"

"Yeah, less than half a glass!"

"You _kicked_ me—"

"You got in the way of my foot! You're not going to guilt trip me, Major!"

"Well, can I have my glass at least?"

A pause, as if she was considering. With great care he leaned against the door, pulling an article of clothing from beneath him and covering his upper body with it.

"Where did you put it?" she muttered irritably, voice far softer than before.

"On your… nightstand," he muttered. He heard a sharp exhalation and footfalls from Major Houlihan's boots. The clink of a glass against a fingernail. He held his breath, releasing it when nothing more was heard but footfalls.

"Raise your hand so I can give it to you without tripping on you," Margaret huffed. Immediately he complied, soon feeling the neck of the glass in his reach. He curled his fingers around it as she released it. Before she could say anything else, he raised the glass to his lips and drank the rest. No use giving her a chance to change her mind about that.

The drink of his salvation now gone, Charles listened intently for Margaret's next move. A couple of thuds and muttered curse words, and he was soon aware of the sound of sloshing liquid, followed by the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. The whole event had taken place quite close to him and yet he couldn't see a thing.

"Margaret, could I have more of—"

"No chance." She was standing directly beside him.

"Please, Margaret," he murmured. "I implore you." He reached out his hand and touched something—her leg. "I'll pay you—ten dollars for a glass."

"I don't want your money."

"Then what_ do_ you want? Major, there must be some way I can convince you. I cannot be expected to spend an inordinate amount of time in this frigid ice-hole without some kind of restitution."

* * *

Klinger sat ramrod straight in his bed, his office enveloped in total darkness.

"Colonel?" he called out. "Anyone there?"

After fumbling around in the dark, he soon lit a candle. He could hear the winds howling outside as he made his way for the door. He attempted to open it to no avail. Several more times he attempted to open the door, but it was stuck. Sighing, he strode to his desk and pulled out the phone. If the whole compound was out of power, that meant that the O.R. and post-op ward were black as well.

After attempting to connect with I-Corps, he hung up and tried again. His attempts to call out were for naught. The phone lines were dead.

"Great," he muttered, throwing his arms up in the air. "Now what? I guess I could check on the patients, but all I can do is wake 'em up."

* * *

"Frozen shut!" Hawkeye yelled towards the mustached surgeon as he yanked at the door to the post-op ward.

"How do you suppose we get in there?" B.J. shouted back, a gust of snow blowing into his mouth as he spoke. He spit the snow out and wiped his mouth off with the sleeve of his coat, which was not thick enough to keep him adequately warm.

"We can't pound on the doors or the patients will get antsy!" Hawkeye yelled. "I think we're going to have to dig around the door to try to clear the snow and ice away!"

"Did you bring a stick?"

"No, did you?"

"Dammit—so we're gonna have to do this with our hands," Hunnicutt muttered, looking at his upturned palms. "Goodbye, pinky. After tonight, I'll probably have to rename you Bluey."

"Either that or stumpy," Pierce retorted, holding up his own frostbitten hand. "Be honest, Beej; do I still have five fingers? I can't feel three of 'em!"

"Well, at least you can still order two drinks or give someone rabbit ears. I'll be lucky if I can pick up a spoon after tonight."

"Are you kidding me? With the slop they serve up in the mess tent, you'd be lucky _not_ to pick up a spoon!"

* * *

**A/N: Now, this is very very important. If you haven't reviewed before, please consider reviewing now, especially if it's something you feel strongly for/against. This next chapter is gearing up to be a bit of a kinky CM. If you'd rather me spare the details of it, I will summarize and shorten (and maybe even think about rewriting if you'd like to make a convincing argument against it happening). If you want the full monty, please let me know. Do know that the "scene" happens completely in the dark. If it was a TV episode, it wouldn't be nearly as descriptive or risqué as writing it makes it, being as it does happen in the dark. Anyway, I really really need your feedback! Simple majority rules! And if only one reviewer comments on it, I'll just have to wait for more, because based on the hit count on this story, there is more than one reader!**

**So to make the voting process simple: a bit of a kinky CM scene—yea or nay?**

**Of course, if you have any other comments, let me know. (you know, the standard dialogue/characterization/flow that I want to be sure isn't out-of-range for the characters to say/do)**

**By the way, for those of you merely sticking it out until the HM, there _is_ HM coming; I promise! In this fic, it happens 'tomorrow night' (if you consider what's up above as "tonight") and then again later on.**


	11. Massage In A Bottle

**A/N: Thanks to all those who read and to those who left me feedback and votes for what was coming! Without further ado, here it is!**

**

* * *

CHAPTER 11 – MASSAGE IN A BOTTLE**

"Yeah, that's the spot. Right there, Major."

Two candles flickered in the expanse of Margaret Houlihan's tent, casting a dim light onto the prone figure of a woman. A man's large hands kneaded the flesh of the woman's back, rubbing the skin on either side of the spine in wide concentric circles.

Major Winchester was certainly knowledgeable in the art of massage, Margaret had discovered to her utter surprise and delight. He was certainly intent on having more of her champagne, based on the quality of the rubdown she was getting. She shifted her body around on the layer of clothing beneath her, a hasty mat consisting of Charles's jacket and coat. He'd claimed to have been unable to stand since being kicked in the gut and so he offered to administer a champagne-worthy massage from his spot in front of her door after pulling on his short-sleeved shirt. Margaret's shirt, however, had been tucked up under her chin to expose the flesh of her back. All he could do while awaiting the taste of that exquisite champagne was admire by candlelight the musculature in Margaret's back as he gently tended to it with the most skilled of handiwork. For almost twenty minutes now he had administered the massage without a word, listening to her low moans of enjoyment.

"You have such good hands," she murmured, the champagne warming her innards and softening her stance towards Winchester. "Both as a surgeon and as a masseuse."

"Thank you, my dear," he replied curtly, smiling in the dim light. "I aim to please."

"And please you _have_," she practically purred. "This is the best massage I've ever gotten."

At the compliment, he merely smiled down at her, enjoying the fact that she'd completely calmed down from earlier. She really could be rather pleasant when she was in a good mood. Perhaps more massages were in order.

"You can pour yourself a glass of champagne now," she said, moving her head to indicate the bottle. "And there's more where that came from, if you keep this up."

He removed his hands from her back to pour himself another glass. After taking a languorous sip, he put the glass down again and returned to the massage. She melted under his touch with a satisfied moan, feeling his fingers now working their magic at the base of her spine.

"Give me a minute," she murmured, taking her own glass of champagne and downing it in one gulp. Charles paused in his task as she did this, silently _tsk_ing as he watched the glass empty in no time. She poured herself yet another glass, lifting it to her lips.

A hand blocked the drink from touching her mouth—Charles's hand.

"What do you think you're doing, Major?" she suddenly spat, glaring at the offending appendage. "Why did you stop with the—"

"This champagne must be _savored_, my dear. Sip it slowly. Taste the bubbles as they form. This is not the type of alcohol to be guzzled."

"This is my stuff and I can drink it how I want."

"Please, Margaret, for both our sakes, _attempt_ to enjoy it a bit," he explained, removing his hand from her glass. "One doesn't come by a 1947 Dom Pérignon every day, you know. Especially not in this fetid swamp of a country."

"Fine," she said with an unseen scowl. "Could you work my mid-back now? I think I pulled something slapping you earlier."

"Ha, on which one," he deadpanned, moving his hands into position.

She sipped the champagne more slowly this time, yet still too fast for Charles's taste. He bit his tongue this time, focusing instead on the massage he was giving the essentially topless blonde nurse on the ground in front of him.

"The one you enjoyed," she replied, lowering her face back towards the floor. "Oh, wait… you enjoyed them all!"

Though her face was buried in Charles's coat, she was smiling deviously. His mouth hung open as he attempted to conjure a response.

"Margaret, I—"

"Have another glass of champagne." As he immediately set about refilling his glass, her smile only grew. The evening she'd planned was not quite finished yet.

* * *

"Ow ow ow."

Hunnicutt winced at Pierce's sounds of distress as they slowly heated their frostbitten hands in the surgery prep scrub sinks. Even though the water was not warm and emerged as little more than a trickle, it helped immensely. They dumped the snow out of their boots and walked in socked feet to warm their toes. Soon the pair found a flashlight and walked through the surgery and pre-op wards into Klinger's office. Klinger met them at the door, wide awake.

"Hello, Sirs," Klinger announced with a smart little salute. "Guess you couldn't sleep either."

"Did you try to get a hold of I-Corps?" B.J. asked. "We need to inform them of our power outage."

"Phone lines are dead," Klinger replied. "Boy, am I glad you're here! I was about to go into the post-op ward but then I thought—what can _I_ do? Read 'em a bedtime story? I can't do much else."

"We understand," B.J. replied with a smile. "We're here now. Do you have a better light than this flashlight? Just in case."

"I'll look around," Klinger offered. As he slunk away, Pierce and Hunnicutt entered the post-op ward. It was pitch black but quiet. Thankfully the patients were not moaning—it was good that this blackout had happened at such an hour. They strode past each patient bed, shining the flashlight through their clothing to dim the bright light as they ensured each patient was sleeping peacefully. Klinger soon returned with another flashlight and a candle.

"Should we fire up the emergency generator?" Hunnicutt whispered to the company clerk.

"I dunno," Klinger admitted, looking thoughtful. "I don't know how much gasoline is around—and even if I did, it's probably buried in a tank under the snow."

"It may be best if we keep it off for the time being," Hawkeye commented. "Post-op is still warm and none of the patients are awake. If we get incoming wounded tomorrow, we're gonna need all the electricity we can get."

"So what should I do?" Klinger asked, looking at the dark-haired doctor.

"Try to get through to I-Corps. We need to let them know as soon as possible about the blackout. They need to send out their techs to fix whatever broke."

Klinger nodded but looked unconvinced. He wrung his hands in the ensuing silence. "Are you guys going back to the Swamp now?"

"Not right away, no," Hawkeye replied. "We're gonna keep an eye on the patients for awhile, make the daunting trek over worthwhile."

"Great!" Klinger replied. "If you need me, I'll be at my desk working through the night to connect to I-Corps. Speaking of which, can I have the candle back?"

"Better yet, here's the flashlight," Hunnicutt said with a smile, holding out the battery-powered object. Klinger shook his head.

"Nah, just the candle will do."

"It looks like it'll only last for another hour or so," Hawkeye remarked, glancing at the wax nub in Hunnicutt's hand.

"Exactly!" Klinger said with a devilish grin, pointing at Hawkeye. "Keeps me from overworking!"

* * *

Once Klinger had left the post-op ward and was presumably putting through the first of several phone calls to I-Corps, Hunnicutt seemed to make a decision.

"I think, just to play it safe, we should stay here tonight," he murmured. At that, he sat on an empty bed. Hawkeye smiled at him knowingly.

"That's your extremities talking."

"Maybe so," B.J. replied with a shrug. "If we go back to the Swamp from here, we'll have no way to rewarm our fingers."

"Speaking of which, I should've followed my instincts and stayed in the nurses' tent tonight."

"Awww, I would have had to break into the post-op all alone," B.J. replied with a fake pout, sticking out his bottom lip exaggeratingly. Hawkeye took a seat next to him.

"I mean, no offense, Beej, but we're not needed here. I could've been there for the nurses in their time of need. I would've been their beacon of hope in the darkness—like a lighthouse along the Maine coastline."

"Oh really?"

"The only difference would be, I'd be docking in _their_ ports after they'd move towards the light."

* * *

"Fantastic… a superb champagne," Charles mumbled with a distinctive slur, finishing off the last of the bottle of Dom Pérignon. The candles Margaret had lit were nearly burnt to their nubs at this point, with only about a half inch of wick remaining. Margaret and Charles sat on the floor with backs against the door, their empty glasses in their hands. After Charles's massage had slowly become more and more inconsistent with each glass of alcohol he consumed, she had adjusted her shirt to normalcy and sat against the door beside him. "Do you have any more, Margaret?" he pleaded, his face dipping in far too close to hers as he spoke, yet neither seemed to mind. It was a stupid question; someone of the likes of Margaret Houlihan could not afford two of such a vintage.

"Of course I do," her voice slurred right back.

"Really?" he said, blinking with confusion. "How did you manage that?"

"The hotel gave us a second bottle on account that we never spend the night there again."

"Why would they do something like that?" Winchester asked, scratching his head. "That makes no sense at all. Hotels love their customers. My Aunt Anastasia, the owner of a five-star hotel chain, tells me that investing in guest satisfaction is its own form of advertisement."

"Oh, we were plenty satisfied," Margaret blurted. With eyes narrowed at her, he opened his mouth to speak, utterly confused.

"Then what did you—I mean, why did they do that?"

"We never left the room," she muttered, shrugging.

"Ha, I highly doubt that the prolonged inability of the maids to enter the room for housekeeping would be an occasion for—"

"I wasn't finished," she said with a little giggle. "While we were there, Donald and I got everyone else to leave their rooms."

"How did you manage…" Suddenly it dawned on him. Of course—this _was_ Hot Lips Houlihan on her honeymoon. "Right," he muttered. "You kept yourselves occupied."

"You bet your boots Donald and I kept occupied," she announced. "I had to squeeze two months' worth of marriage into a long weekend because of how little I was able to see him in those days."

"I get your point, _loud_ and clear," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Now, can you not spare a few drops of your second bottle? This _is_ quite a remarkable occasion."

"Fine, fine. I'll get it," she replied, slurring her words, clearly tipsy. With a start she leaned forward, crawling on her hands and knees for her foot locker.

This time the corkscrew was much harder to insert, being as Margaret's hands were now unsteady. As the corkscrew missed the cork for the third time, Charles grabbed the neck of the bottle with a firm hand.

"Lemme do it," he mumbled. "I can do it far better than you."

"What are you talking about? You're far more—drunker than I am!" she retorted.

"We Winchesters have a profound tolerance to… alcohol. It also doesn't hurt that I'm roughly twice your size."

"I got it this time," she hissed drunkenly. With that, she jammed the corkscrew down again, missing the cork once again and coming within a millimeter of Charles's hand.

"Give it to me," he insisted, pulling the bottle away from her. "I will not let you harm this precious commom-ditty—it's all we have left."

Though he had successfully wrested the bottle from Margaret's grasp, she still held the corkscrew.

"The candle, Margaret," he indicated, pointing at the flickering length of wick. "We need to open the bottle before it's dark.

"The bottle's already dark," she replied knowingly.

"No, you silly ninny," he replied, leaning in tantalizingly close to her face once more. "There's been a blackout."

"I don't have amnesia; I'm just drunk, Charles," Margaret muttered, holding her glass out for him to fill. "Do you ever lighten up?"

"You can be assured that if I were capable of lightening up, I would've done so already, and far more effectively than the candles, anyhow." He held out a hand as he frowned at the flickering wicks. "Corkscrew please."

With his Boston Brahmin accent and with Margaret's level of intoxication, the word _corkscrew_ spoken by him sounded like something else altogether.

"What did you say, Major?" she asked, fussing with her hair as she asked.

"Corkscrew, Margaret. Did you spill champagne into your cochleas?"

Another suggestive-sounding word. Margaret felt flushed and rubbed her neck.

"It is rather drafty sitting here, is it not?" he commented, forcefully ejecting the cork from the champagne bottle. "Why don't we move our seats over to your bed?"

"Just don't spill that stuff on my sheets," she warned him, attempting to lean against the door for support. "Can you help me up?" she asked, clearly unable to stand on her own.

"I am holding the bottle at present, and I do not wish to lap it up off of the floor, so no."

"Let me hold the bottle while you stand first then," she offered, holding out her hand. "You know, so it doesn't spill."

"Ha. Not a chance, butterfingers," he replied, a smug grin on his face. "I cannot leave such a treasure in the care of one lacking the alco-lol tolerance that good breeding provides."

At that, Margaret leaned over, breathing into Charles's face.

"Pompous prick," she spat. He smirked giddily back at her.

"Inebriated imbecile."

The words slid out of his uninhibited mouth. Never had he so blatantly smarted off to Margaret; this was the sort of immediate retort he'd give to Pierce or Hunnicutt. A slap suddenly landed on his face, more playful than vicious, but it still stung. He blinked several times to clear his vision. Margaret's face remained close to his, a strange devious smile on her face, as if she anticipated watching every detail of his response to the slap. He looked at her, his expression that of confusion and suspicion.

"Fine," he huffed, feeling defeated. "I shall stand up first and then, only after the bottle is safely placed on your nightstand, I will come to your aid."

He bent his leg at the knee in preparation to stand. Margaret hid her disappointment at his response. With his free hand, Charles shoved off from the door to give himself some momentum, and soon both feet were planted on the floor. Margaret watched as he took an unsteady step towards the bed, and then all of a sudden there came the sound of a bottle dropping, the gurgle of a fizzing liquid, and the hiss of the candles being extinguished.

"Damn it!" Charles yelped, dropping to his knees to collect the bottle. Margaret could smell champagne quite strongly now and felt the clothing beneath her legs getting damp.

"Did you just do what I think you did?" she asked, the volume of her voice increasing steadily.

He squinted apologetically in the darkness.

"Don't worry—it didn't break, thanks to…" he paused for a moment and then sighed, feeling the dampened fabric. "…my scarf."

"You idiot!" she raged, pulling herself to her feet. "You spilled it all over my floor! Why didn't you listen to me and let me hold it, you arrogant ass?" she fumed in a hoarse, high-pitched voice. "I should have never shared it with you! That was my last bottle!"

"I tripped," he murmured ever so quietly in response.

"On what?" she raged. "I keep a clean house!"

Carefully he placed the mostly empty champagne bottle on what he hoped was her nightstand, being as it was pitch black again. As soon as he had done this, he felt Margaret run into his back.

"Oof!" he groaned, as her body forced his upper body over her bed. His face hit the mattress, being as he hadn't had enough time to put his arms out to catch himself.

"You tripped as well! Some woman you are," he spat viciously in the process of straightening his back, "unable to keep a tidy home!"

"I didn't trip," she growled. "I'm just putting you in your place!"

His breath caught in his throat.

"On your bed?"

"First you insulted me earlier about my love-life and now you tell me I can't clean! What am I to you, some kind of dirty whore?"

"'Course not, Margaret," he said, half amused. "I would never use those words. Rather, if I had to convey the same meaning, I'd probably say 'sordid strumpet.' Rolls better off the tongue; wouldn't you agree?"

Margaret's rage was boiling over. She'd never been so insulted in her life. Not only was her moral compass lying dead in Tokyo, but now the pompous pariah of the 4077th was calling her a dirty whore in so many words!

"You better bite your tongue because I'm not gonna take it anymore!" she raged. "And now you've led me to do this!"

With that, Charles felt a sharp tug and a sudden new draft as his pants and drawers were fiercely yanked down. His eyes went wide in the darkness.

"What the—Margaret, stop it this instant!" he hissed, reaching behind him to fix his pants. Huffing angrily, Margaret grabbed his arm and wrenched it behind him, pinning it to the center of his back at an awkward angle.

"You're going to break my arm!" he cried, unable to free his arm from Margaret's grip. "Let go, Major! Don't make me do something I'll regret!"

"Like what?" she asked, leaning her face close to his and shoving him back down towards the bed once again. Grinning in the darkness, Margaret felt the palm of her hand striking bare skin. The resultant yowl of Winchester and his fidgeting indicated she had hit her target.

"Unhand me this instant!" he roared, fighting to stand up as she shoved down on his back with a sharp elbow. He winced at the pain as her elbow dug into his spine and refrained from struggling further. "You will be court-martialed for this!"

"Then why should I stop now?" she asked, giving him another stinging swat to his backside. He jolted again, a little whimper escaping his lips. Before he could say another word, she administered another swat, her palm connecting with bare skin. She could feel his muscles tense up as she struck his skin, his upper body jerking up involuntarily at the sensation. "You spilled my champagne and then have the audacity to insult _me_ twice," she growled, smacking him again with no intelligible response from him. "You deserve way more than this!"

"No one deserves this humil—lilation!" he growled, his words still slurring together, his voice strained as if he'd been gritting his teeth.

"_You_ do," she seethed.

All the frustrations of her past, of never being good enough for her father or for any other man for that reason, had driven her to this explosive climax of anger. The generals and colonels she'd slept with had only helped her attain the mere rank of major. Frank never left his wife for her. Hawkeye had scorned her after one night. Donald had cheated on her more times than she could count. Jack Scully had callously rejected her after she'd been disappointed in his demotion. Her father had never made her feel like a success. And now, to top it all off, Charles Emerson Winchester the third was calling her a dirty whore!

Normally Margaret was the type to gently massage her lover's fears away, comforting and complimenting her man. She had been the typical sweet submissive woman when she was one-on-one with her husbands or boyfriends and suddenly Winchester had caused her usual tough-as-nails façade she had built up around her to cross over into her personal life. Why had this happened? And what did it mean? She was finding this whole process simultaneously stimulating and shocking and yet, she found herself wanting to know more about Major Winchester.

No longer was Winchester huffing angrily through the swats as he had been when she'd first yanked his pants down, but rather, his breaths were quick and shallow. His free hand was being used to support his upper body and yet, his back was practically parallel with the floor. He had submitted to her.

"Major," he blurted breathily, fidgeting again in an attempt to straighten his back. "Stop this immediately. You are being illolic…illogic-illal… illa—not smart, just as you were earlier today."

"Ha, and just like earlier, _you're_ being turned on," she retorted, reaching her arm around to confirm what she'd suspected. With a yelp of surprise, he slapped her hand away.

"Wanton wench," he muttered, to only flinch when yet another slap landed. "I'll pay you—thirty dollars for what was spilled, if you'll stop this this instant!"

"That bottle was priceless, as you well know. You can't buy me."

"Sixty dollars?"

With that, she gave him another swat, this one twice as hard as the last. An embarrassingly high-pitched moan escaped his lips. She could feel him shifting his hips in front of her and wished she could see what she was doing to the blue-blooded surgeon. Surely his skin was beginning to redden by now.

Another swat, this time not only stinging his skin but her hand as well. He whimpered yet again, his breathing erratic. Her own anger had been channeled into arousal as well. Here she was, stuck inside a pitch black tent administering a hide tanning to Major Charles Emerson Winchester the third. Her throat went dry and she swallowed in an attempt to rewet it. If Major Winchester was capable of obeying these kinds of commands, perhaps he could also be coerced into dropping his haughty façade, that major aspect of his personality keeping her from getting too close to him.

"Let me up, Margaret," he murmured, barely above the sound of his own heavy breathing. "Stop this—this _thing_ you're doing—you are above this."

"Didn't sound like that earlier," she hissed, laying another one on his behind. "I'm_ far_ below your level of breeding," she added, administering another slap as she spoke.

He bit his lip as the slap landed, shutting his eyes tightly as conflicting emotions and sensations threatened to drive him insane.

"True—" he yelped, "—but far above that of a heathen," he added, voice quavering. The hand that had been supporting him was trembling now as well, and Margaret found that his face was nearly touching the mattress now.

"Stop talking," she warned him, delivering another swat. He bowed his head lowly, his forehead skimming the surface of her sheet. She was tired of restraining his hand behind his back and wondered what he'd do if she released it. Would he spin around with fiery eyes and yank her over his lap to administer a similar punishment? Would he run at the door with full force in an attempt to escape? There was no telling what Major Winchester would do; he'd already shocked her to the core with his response to her slapping him earlier in the day. However, to stack the deck in her favor, she had to have him further along than this. Perhaps some talk would help move things along…

"You've been very bad, Major. So unbelievably arrogant," she spoke lowly, sensing gooseflesh as she ran her fingers over his freshly-slapped skin. He fidgeted uneasily, letting out a long-held breath and placing his forehead firmly on the bed.

"Don't forget clumsy," he heard himself mutter. Eyes wide at the sound of his own vocal response, he bit his lip in an attempt to keep any further thoughts inside his head. The smack that followed was enough to make him yelp and jerk his head and shoulders upwards. His lower body made contact with the sheet as it bucked against the mattress, and he gaped in the direction of his legs, seeing nothing but darkness but knowing what could happen. This had to stop. He had to rationalize with her, use his powers of persuasion to make this end amicably but spotlessly.

"What do you think? Should the next one be harder?" Margaret murmured, her bosom pressed up against his back. A chill went down his spine and he exhaled forcefully, shutting his eyes in an attempt to regain his sanity. He was losing control completely. The drink was clouding his judgment, as proved by the last thing he'd said. He had to swear off drinking when this was all over, if only for his own self-preservation. When he allowed himself to over-indulge, he ended up in the oddest of predicaments: developing pneumonia from swimming the Charles River in his cap and gown, "marrying" a nurse in Tokyo, and last but not least, getting his hide tanned by Major Houlihan. Margaret's voice floated into his consciousness. "Remember all the instances where you'd been itching for this, Major."

His heartbeat thudded in his ears. Not only could he hear his own labored breathing, but he could feel the rapid rising and falling of Margaret's chest, perhaps even her pounding heartbeat as she held her body against the arm that she'd pinned behind his back. She was enjoying this as well! The darkness had afforded him a great deal of privacy in terms of her inability to see his response—and yet, it had also made this moment possible.

"Margaret—I must implore you," he said, dragging out his words as he spoke in an attempt to stall what he was about to say next. He had to slow himself down and he had to ask the question that had been nagging him ever since she'd appeared in the Swamp this morning and jarred him from his slumber. "You mention _instances_—and yet, only now are you addressing them," he muttered. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"What are you talking about?" Margaret chided, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She'd careened into a different persona, what with all this corporal punishment, and it irked her to know that Winchester was acutely aware of this difference in her usual M.O.. "I don't know what you're—"

"Let me be succinct," he interrupted, irritation in his voice. "Why are you interested in me?"

* * *

**A/N: I've incorporated your feedback so far into the final product! This chapter ended in a different way before, but I like this way better. What a cliffhanger, eh? Please let me know what you think of things so far!**


	12. A Lesson In Humility

**CHAPTER 12 – A LESSON IN HUMILITY**

"What?" Margaret's voice came out as a sheepish squawk as she took a step back from him, releasing his arm from its hold. She was flabbergasted by the direct question. "Talk about _arrogance_! Interested in _you_? Wow, you never cease to amaze me with your giant ego!"

He cringed, realizing the question had not been worded as delicately as he'd hoped. Now that he'd dared look a gift horse in the mouth, it was going to bite him for sure.

"This isn't a matter of arrogance, Margaret. I just want to know, why now, after all this time?" he said, quickly bending down and fetching the pants from around his ankles as he did so. "All those moments that could have been pursued further—but yet only _now_ have you—"

"Major, I did this because I figured a person of your infinite _compassion_ and _concern_ would keep my mind off of everything that's been going on," she spat, her words dripping with sarcasm. "I was right. You haven't even bothered to say one thing about it. And that was just what I needed. Thank you."

"What do you mean by that?" he stammered, narrowing his eyes in the darkness. "That sounds suspiciously like a backhanded compliment to me."

"It was, Charles. You did just what I wanted you to do—you let me vent, and you kept my mind occupied in the meantime. I don't mean to offend you; I'm merely thanking you for being you."

"Margaret," he sputtered in a whiny tone. "It was not my intention to be cold—"

"I know," she replied with surprising tenderness. He felt a wave of relief begin to wash over him, until she spoke again. "It's your nature to be cold."

"Now, that's just not true," he murmured, hurt in his voice. "I can be warm." He turned around so that he was presumably facing her. In the darkness he couldn't see a thing, but he could hear her breathing.

The blonde nurse crossed her arms in the darkness. "Well, not to me."

"That's not fair, Margaret," he said, reaching out and grabbing her hands. "You took me by surprise this morning—I could hardly get a word in edgewise through your barrage of commands. When I arrived here tonight, you shut me up immediately and only let me read a small passage from that chapter. I simply haven't had ample opportunity to—"

"Didn't you just hear what I said?" she cut in. "I told you to be quiet, and you obeyed me. I don't know why, but I needed that. Seeing you get worked up at obeying me was another incentive to have you come by tonight. I certainly couldn't ask Hawkeye to do what you did."

"But… would you?" he murmured, swallowing, his voice very small.

"Would I _what_?" she replied.

"Would you have asked Pierce to be your silent little punching bag, as it were?"

"Hell no. He'd laugh in my face."

"Well, would you like to talk about your father's death?" he asked her in a soft voice. "Believe it or not, I can relate. Have I told you about my late brother Timmy?"

"I don't want to talk about it," she said, her voice breaking. She refused to let Winchester see—err, hear her cry. To him, she was tough and seductive, not a crybaby, and that was how she would stay. Only Hawkeye had ever seen her truly break down during their time in the abandoned hut and in the cave when the shelling came too close to the M.A.S.H.

"I didn't avoid the subject because of a lack of caring, Margaret. I care very much for… your welfare. And evidently you care for me, or else you wouldn't have—"

"I don't know how I feel right now," she interrupted with a frustrated sigh. "I'm seeing a whole new side of you, Charles, and it's a shock to my system."

There was a pause, as he considered.

"A good shock?"

"Yes, a good shock. But enough with the schmaltzy talk. I know how hard it is for you to admit your feelings. Besides, I don't even want to get into it right now," she said, sighing loudly. If he pushed her much further, she knew she'd start crying about her father.

"What about this good shock, Margaret? Care to explain its meaning to me?"

"I'm still evaluating it. I have to see if what I'm seeing is really you or if it's your stubborn refusal to disobey me."

"Ha, stubborn refusal to disobey; that has such a negative connotation to it," he muttered. "How about wording it instead as my persistent desire to obey you?"

"Either way, it's not your doing. I heard you pull up your pants a minute ago," she remarked, bitterness in her tone.

"Only because it's drafty, Margaret," he said with an uneasy chuckle. "I can re-assume the position and you can continue _venting_, if you wish."

"I'm not going to force you to—"

"Was it not proof enough this morning that I enjoy this kind of play, as inexplicable as that seems?"

"That's not enough." She let out a long sigh, gently removing her hands from his. "I think I led you on, Charles. It's probably better that we just stop now and chalk it up to some kind of grief-fed frenzy on my part."

"Led me on about what?" he replied. "You've not said one single word that has reflected a false feeling on your part. That's one thing I greatly admire about you, Margaret. You always say what you think."

She scoffed in reply.

"I gather that you have more to vent," he murmured, a little smile appearing on his lips, a hand reaching out for hers and taking it briefly. "_Please_, Major. I've been so very… aloof. It's unacceptable and I need to be punished for it."

She felt all the blood leave her face.

"Are you being serious, Charles?"

"As you said before, I never received my proper comeuppance; I won't deny that," he replied, grinning in her direction. "Not only that, but I'd like to be of service to you in the capacity of a willing vessel on whom to vent your emotions."

"Fine, fine," she said, throwing her hands in the air. She felt herself smiling toothily. "Then assume the position, Major."

* * *

"So did you think about what I asked you?" Margaret muttered in the darkness, having heard the springs of her mattress creak from Charles presumably _assuming the position_. Something throbbed inside of her and it shocked her to feel such a sensation. "Should the next one be harder? Or softer?"

She heard him clear his throat, his belt buckle clicking shortly before the sound of his pants hitting the floor.

"Harder." His voice was strong and confident. For a moment she gaped into the darkness in stunned silence.

"Harder, _what_?" she shot back, amazed that she was already finding herself back in the mood for this again. Winchester stammered uncontrollably. His voice came out choked but yearning.

"Harder… _please_."

The swats that followed were certainly harder than before, and he bucked against the bed, his knees striking the sideboard with painful force as the punishment continued. After several more swats, there was a lull in activity and his eyes went wide. He stood up ramrod straight, suddenly aware that Margaret's body was no longer behind him. Somewhere on the floor by the door he heard movement and the sound of a quietly muttered curse.

"Margaret?" he called out, realizing the heat emanating from his rump. Hopefully tomorrow he'd be able to sit without incident. It was fortunate that she'd decided to stop. His body was again humming with arousal but he could make it go away with some well-planned thoughts of unpleasant things. Klinger's sense of fashion. The smell of the latrine in mid-summer. Hawkeye's nauseating one-liners to his attending nurse. A perforated colon. Baseball.

It wasn't working. His breaths were still shallow, body still trembling, arousal still ever-present. Soon he felt the heat of Margaret behind him once again, shoving him back onto her bed and then snaking her arm around the front of him without touching him.

"I think I need a breather," he said, though he allowed her to shove him down so that his face made contact with the mattress. "Please—Margaret. You said you didn't want champagne spilled, but this…" His voice trailed off. He couldn't speak the words.

"But this what?"

"Is far worse, Margaret," he muttered, making a face of distaste. "Let me sit down for a few minutes. Or might you have an unused—" He stopped himself in mid-sentence, aware that that would only add fuel to fire for her _dirty whore_ idea if he assumed she had those—and by that point, there wouldn't even be a purpose to her having them anyway, because she'd be angry.

"Cat got your tongue, Major? What were you going to say?"

He chuckled nervously.

"Ah, I seem to have forgotten. Let me just sit down and—"

"Ha, as if you could sit down," she cried triumphantly. "So have you learned your lesson?"

"Lesson?"

A forceful swat followed his question. He heard a moan leave his mouth and immediately placed a hand over his mouth to stifle it, but it was too late. A couple of thickly silent seconds passed. He cleared his throat, his pulse pounding in his neck.

"Yes, Margaret, a lesson in humility. Humiliation, more like it."

"Well, if that's true, I expect that you won't say another arrogant word to anyone unless you want more of these." With that, another resounding smack. He held his breath, shutting his eyes.

"To anyone?" he blurted, opening his eyes, feeling sweat trickling down his temples. "But with colleagues like Pierce and Hunnicutt, it's all I have to remind them of their place."

Damn it. He'd done it again without even meaning to. Realizing his err, he dejectedly lowered his head to the bed, his shoulders rounded and eyes squinted in defeat, steeling himself for the next whack.

"It's saying things like that that brings this about," she murmured, leaning her body across his as she spoke, pushing him down further onto the bed as she did so. "Remember that tomorrow in the O.R., Doctor."

"Oh God, how do you do it," he whispered hopelessly, knowing that he had reached his end. One final whack would certainly push him over the edge. She'd probably go ahead and punish him again once she saw the subsequent condition of her bed—oddly enough, he found himself smiling in the dark at the thought. He shut his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth together, unable to fight the fast approaching deluge.

The final whack sent him sprawling onto the bed, his ready arousal encountering something other than blankets, a hard-sided container of some sort, as he found his release. The corporal punishment from Margaret had sobered him up rather effectively and he was now acutely aware of what had just occurred. As he lay panting on the mattress, he felt Margaret's forearms pressed against his heaving back, the warmth of her breath on the back of his neck.

"How was that?" Margaret whispered into his ear, her weight on top of his own. He sighed into the sheets. How was he supposed to answer that? If he'd been told that corporal punishment was his kink, he would have laughed in that person's face. Yet here he was, lying practically spread-eagle on a bed, recovering from a surprisingly fast-reached climax brought about by this unintentional discovery.

* * *

"How was it, Major? A response would be nice," she insisted with arms crossed, after she'd heard him reconfiguring his clothing and his posture. His hand lightly skimmed the surface of her bed for signs of the encounter, but he found none. Instead, his fingers grazed the edge of a hard object.

"Unanticipated," he muttered self-consciously, rubbing the perspiration off the back of his neck with his hand. He couldn't help but recall the sweaty fumblings with Sooni in a truck parked by the entrance to the M.A.S.H. as the feisty girl stripped down to nothing with practiced ease. Though this experience with Margaret hadn't been a consummated sexual act by any means, he strangely found it more satisfying than the dalliances with the hungry little hooker who had broken his heart. However, his intimate encounter with Donna "Winchester" née Parker held a special place that would not be forgotten anytime soon. He snapped out of his reverie, sensing that Margaret glaring at him, and knew he had to break the awkward silence that had fallen between them. "Before I go into any detail, I do have one question."

She frowned in the dark at his anticlimactic response, utterly crestfallen.

"What's that?"

"What object did you slip in front of me?" he asked, touching the edge of the object without lifting it. A smile appeared on Margaret's face.

"Your boot." Her response sounded almost proud.

"What?" he squawked in a choked voice. He ran a finger up the side of the object, feeling the shoelaces. She was telling the truth! How could she have done such a vile thing? His body shook with rage. "Are you telling me that I—"

"Yep."

"How could you?" he hissed, taking a step in the direction of her voice. "What possessed you to grab _my _personal property amidst all the debris in this hovel that would have served the same purpose?"

Her grin only became wider. Now she would see—err, experience the aggressive side of Charles Winchester.

"I wasn't about to let you mess up my sheets; I have to sleep in those," she remarked matter-of-factly, shrugging in the dark. "It was all I could find."

She felt him grab her arm then, sliding his grip down to her wrist as she uncrossed her arms. She could feel the strength in his hands, and suppressed a swoony sigh.

"How am I going to walk out of here, Major?" he asked, squeezing her wrist for emphasis. "Did you consider that?"

"Hop?" She smiled toothily in the darkness. He blinked at her immediate transition from dominatrix to coy little troublemaker.

"I never in my life expected this of _you_, of all people!" he roared. "How _dare_ you defile my property!"

"I didn't defile it; you did."

His grip on her wrist tightened then. She held her breath in anticipation. His voice erupted harshly from him.

"If I'd known that it was _my_ boot that I—"

"There was no stopping you, Major," she explained smilingly. "I could have placed your phonograph in the way and you would've done the same thing."

"You shall never see my phonograph again or any of my possessions, for that matter! I will treat you as if I've merely tolerated you since my arrival, and it will be as if this entire day never happened!"

"Did you not enjoy yourself in the meantime? Your boot seems to think you did."

"That boot does not have a brain and thus it cannot think. I would argue the same for you."

"How dare you!" she roared. "In case you hadn't noticed, you're the only one who got off!"

"Well, why don't you call on your hotel hollerer husband for a rerun? Oh, that's right—he's now with Darlene, or Susan, or Marie, busily screaming their way into another complimentary bottle of champagne."

A deathly silence answered him. In the darkness of the room, Winchester squinted with impending doom at the extremely hurtful statement that had just left his lips. He had just insulted her deeply, that was certain—and no less, following an act in which he derived the full benefit and her, none of it. He was a complete fool. His level of fear only increased in the thick silence that answered him, and he could feel himself trembling in the darkness of the room. Even so, he felt her jerking her arm out of his hold on her wrist.

"Margaret," he began, his voice quaking, "I didn't mean that—"

"Get out of here. Now."

"I'm sorry," he murmured, wringing his hands, awaiting some kind of slap or physical rebuff from her. None came.

"Get out now. I don't care how you do it; just get out of here!"

He reached out an arm into the darkness, contacting her arm. Immediately she pulled away from his touch.

"Margaret, that was a thoughtless thing for me to say. I was wrong."

"It's too late for that," she stated, her voice flat and cold. "Get out."

Sighing, he turned around to face the direction of her bed. With an idea in mind, he took a step onto the mattress, hearing it creak loudly beneath his socked feet.

"Get off of my mattress, Major," Houlihan growled, her voice positively frightening. He winced at the sound of it, wishing himself away from this dire situation. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Get down from there! It's not stable!"

"I'm leaving," he muttered, pulling out a pocket knife from his trousers and feeling for the edge of the fabric roof.

She heard a tearing sound then, like a sharp edge running through fabric. He was ripping the roof of her tent!

"Are you ripping through my roof?" she shrieked. With that, she put a boot-clad foot on the bed, her teeth gritted with rage. "So help me, Major…"

"You told me to leave, and so that is what I am doing," he muttered, the incision nearly two feet wide by now and about a foot and a half high. Just another foot or two of width and he could squeeze through, but that wasn't the only issue... He glanced up at the hole, his shoulders drooping. Not only would he have to widen the hole, but then he'd also have to lift his entire body to get himself through the roof, as if doing a pull-up. He'd never been successful at those. And what then, _after_ he'd pulled himself through the roof? All that remained on the other side was the ground—which was at least six feet below. It was certainly enough of a height to break a bone.

"I told you to leave; I didn't tell you to wreck my tent," she snarled.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, thoroughly ashamed now. In fact, he couldn't recall a moment that he'd felt so completely ashamed of himself—though that long-ago addiction to amphetamines came rather close.

Suddenly there came from the bed a loud cracking sound a moment before the metal frame promptly broke in two. Charles stumbled backwards with a yelp, landing on the mattress—landing on Margaret. Snowy winds began to billow through the hole in the tent roof, whipping throughout the small room.

"Get off of me!" Margaret screeched, attempting to shove his heavy body off. Promptly Charles rolled off of her onto the floor, a small avalanche of snow sliding down the tent roof and falling on him. A faint light shone in from the sky, accompanied by a blizzard of snowy air and icicles.

"Now it's snowing in here!" she fumed. "And in case you didn't notice, my heater is out of wood! You've killed us both!"

"No," he replied quietly, words escaping him.

"There's nothing in my tent that's strong enough for you to stand on," she remarked. "You're stuck here just like me. You couldn't have lifted yourself through that hole even if the bed had held up."

"I could lift you out of here," he stated demurely. "You'd have to climb on my shoulders, but—"

"Yeah, and break my neck on the other side. No thanks; I want to retain the ability to move."

"How about the window?"

The sound of irritation that met him served as a resolute no.

A torrential downpour of snow and icy rain blew through the gaping hole, ripping the beginnings of Charles's escape route into a gaping hole extending all the way to the apex of her tent. A chill ran up Winchester's spine as he became permeated with snowflakes.

"I—don't worry, Margaret, I can fix that," he muttered, standing up with a wave of shame as he ran a hand through his snowy hair. "I'll suture it like a wound." All the heat was quickly rising out of the tent and it would be very cold soon. He lifted his arms into the air, but the rip had extended too high up.

"You can't reach up there now!" Margaret raged. "It's too high!"

"I could double up the mattress…"

"Trust me, it won't work; it'll just collapse like a house of cards. The springs in my mattress are dead."

"How can that be? The springs in my bed still have plenty of bounce to them," he remarked dryly.

"Ha. I could've guessed that much."

He crossed his arms, confused by her response. "Now, what is that supposed to mean?"

* * *

"Margaret's emotions were all over the place today: comatose, sad, furious, happy, then back to furious. I think I should talk to her," Hawkeye explained, as he dealt cards to Klinger and Hunnicutt in Klinger's office in the glow of fading candlelight. "She's being so—weird. Usually she's a rock and now she's being moodier than Colonel Potter was when he'd forgotten his anniversary." Their impromptu poker game was almost over and no one had won anything, save for some cotton swabs that were being used as chips.

"What are you going to say to her?" Hunnicutt remarked. "There's only so much you can do when someone has a death in the family. It's just one of those things that time has to heal."

"Well, you know what they say, time wounds all heels," Hawkeye muttered, suddenly looking sentimental.

"So do pumps," Klinger added. "I don't know how women can put up with those things. Two years I try it, and I'm crippled for life. You should _see_ my bunions."

"What's with you, Hawk?" B.J. asked, noticing his friend's sad stare. "Margaret's a tough gal; she'll get through this."

"That's the thing, though, Beej. Remember when she and I got stranded on our way to the 8063rd? She asked for me to be there for her, and I was. I did my duty _then_; you'd think that'd count for something."

"Count for what? She's here, amongst friends. She can talk to anyone she wants to about it."

"She hasn't talked to me!" Klinger cut in. The surgeons glanced at him briefly, and then returned to their conversation. "I'm just sayin'…" he muttered. "I know her more intimately than either of you do."

"What are you talking about?" Hawkeye remarked. Klinger flashed a big smile.

"Don't you remember? I took a bath with her. Shoulda seen her face—" he explained, shaking his head, "—but I wasn't looking at that."

"_That's _an intimate moment?" Hawkeye remarked. "I actually _had_ a moment with her—one that she liked."

"You did?" Klinger replied with a chuckle. "You and Major Houlihan? You're cracking me up, Captain."

"I think it's _she_ who's cracking up," Hawkeye admitted, smoothly changing the subject. "First, she's a zombie in O.R., then she gets drunk and disappears all day, and finally she goes storming after Charles, who still hasn't turned up."

"I don't think you have to worry about him, Hawk," Hunnicutt replied. "He's a big boy; he can handle himself."

"It's not that… It's just—maybe she's looking for someone to vent to, and somehow he fit the bill. How could she do that? I'm sure I'm easier to vent to than _he_ is."

"Ha," Hunnicutt scoffed. "Are you saying you want her to slap you around and chase after you?"

"No—but that second part doesn't sound too bad," Hawkeye began. "All jokes aside, I just think she's going about it all wrong. She needs a friendly shoulder to cry on, not a pompous ass to use as a punching bag."

"Yeah, especially when we aren't there to watch," Hunnicutt added with a smile. "Are you that shoulder, Hawkeye?"

"I will be tomorrow. As well as being all ears," he remarked, the candle flickering what remained of its flame.

"Sounds like necking will be next to impossible, then," Klinger remarked, shrugging.

Hawkeye winked at him.

"Are you kidding? When I'm a shoulder and all ears, necking goes right along with the territory."

* * *

**A/N: This was a long chapter and I incorporated some of you guys' concerns into it! I almost called the story by the name at the top of this chapter. It was down between "A Lesson In Humility" and "A Major Wager." Anyway, I hope you liked it! Feedback is always appreciated even if it's not glowing, you know! I love when you point out things I hadn't thought of! Your feedback helps this be the best story it can be!**


	13. A Wager Between Majors

**CHAPTER 13 – A WAGER BETWEEN MAJORS**

* * *

Hunnicutt was ready with the flashlight when the candle finally extinguished itself. All three men stood up from their place at Klinger's desk.

"Well, Klinger, we're gonna get some shuteye in post-op," Hunnicutt muttered. "Let us know if you get a hold of I-Corps."

"Not gonna happen tonight," Klinger replied with a shrug.

"Want the flashlight?" Hunnicutt offered, holding out the item. "We don't need it for now. And the heaters are still warm, so they shouldn't need more fuel until morning."

"Eh, the phone lines are as dead as a doornail. And if I stay up all night trying to connect, _I_ will be tomorrow. Then no one will be able to get through to I-Corps."

"What do you mean, no one? Hawkeye or I could do it."

"Oh yeah?" Klinger remarked, eyebrow raised. He held out the cord to them. "Show me where you plug this in to connect to 'em."

When they hesitated, Klinger grinned widely.

"Just what I thought. See you tomorrow!"

* * *

"For the umpteenth time, I'm sorry, Margaret."

Silence met Charles Winchester, save for the sound of his teeth chattering in the darkness. He'd since retrieved his jacket and coat from the floor, only to find that they were soaking wet and quite cold from the champagne having spilled onto them. Since that time, he'd sat with knees drawn up to his chin, shivering in the center of Margaret's tent wearing only his trousers, socks, and short-sleeved shirt as snow fell down on him. A sliver of moonlight cast a slice of light into the gaping roof of Margaret's tent, giving them the motivation to try once more to force the door open with an accompaniment of yells and shouting, to no avail. The howling winds all but drowned out their cries for help.

After that disappointment, Margaret had barred the arrogant surgeon from the snow-free side of her tent and was now sitting somewhere in the darkness. He sighed and began to speak once more, snowflakes settling on his balding head.

"Margaret, I cannot begin to make up for that spiteful—"

"Then don't bother starting," she muttered bitterly. "Now we're going to freeze to death."

"Only me," he blurted.

"What do you mean, only you? In case you haven't noticed, it's snowing in my tent and I have no way of warming it up! We're both doomed!"

"You have your bedclothes," he explained, his chattering teeth marring the smoothness of his speech. "Your mattress, to keep you off of the cold ground. And the garments in your foot locker and drawers. You'll be just fine."

"No—I won't," she spat back. "Ugh, I'm going to die _here_, of all places. And with _you_, of all people!"

"Margaret," he said soothingly. "It's not the worst that could happen. You could be stuck with a lecher like Pierce, for instance."

At mention of Hawkeye, she shut her eyes in the darkness, reminiscing about the strange turn of events leading to her kissing and rolling around on the floor of an abandoned hut with the dark-haired surgeon, at that time uncertain if tomorrow would even come. She'd been married at the time and yet had been completely willing to leave her husband for Hawkeye Pierce. She'd made herself vulnerable to the man, confessed her innermost longings, told him of those moments she held in her heart when she'd have a stirring of emotion hearing his laugh or listening to a particularly good joke of his.

Of course, rather than reciprocate with similar feelings, Hawkeye's nonverbal reply to her romantic musings was that of discomfort and annoyance, to say the least. He had hurt her badly with that rejection, and it had taken her months to completely forget about their encounter. And yet, Hawkeye still hit on her from time to time, still made her roll her eyes with his amorous requests. Now that she'd stowed her emotions away, she was a safe target for his flirtation now; he didn't have to worry about her actually giving in to him.

Even though her dalliance with Hawkeye hadn't worked out, it had been overwhelmingly pleasing while it lasted. Hawkeye's kisses were passionate, his arms wrapping around her as if he'd never let go. She'd forgotten all about the shelling, all about their being lost, all about being afraid when Hawkeye was holding her. Charles, on the other hand, was anything but comforting in this time of strife. He'd hurt her deeply with his words, more deeply than even Hawkeye had hurt her, if that was possible. She'd nearly been reduced to tears at the reminder of her ex-husband's many affairs. She was glad that during that moment, the lights were out.

"Ha," she remarked bitterly. "Captain Pierce is a lecher with everyone but me."

Charles shivered, attempting to read into her words. It wasn't clear what she'd meant by the statement.

"Mind explaining?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied flatly.

Of course she minded explaining. He sighed, his body racked by shivers. He reached an ice-cold hand up to the top of his head, dusting off the snow that fell there. The only part of his body that was warm was his behind, which was still stinging from the barrage of slaps it had endured.

"Could you spare a hat?" he asked quietly.

"No."

"Please, Margaret. I haven't much on top, and it's billowing right down on me. I'm chilled right down to the bone."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you cut a _gaping hole in my roof_," she retorted. "You made your bed; now you have to sleep in it."

"I will not argue you on that point. Please—I have apologized more in the last hour than I have in the course of my life thus far," he murmured, irritation lacing his voice.

"You disgust me."

"I am well-aware of my effect on you—but does that warrant a death sentence? Think of the future patients that will not serve to benefit from my expertise. Their blood will be on your hands." At that, he rubbed his hands together rapidly in an attempt to generate warmth. "Just a simple hat will suffice, Margaret."

She couldn't take it anymore. She was sick of hearing his drivel. Utterly livid and while still wrapped in sheets, she lunged out of the darkness towards his shivering body, which was illuminated by a sliver of moonlight.

"That's it!" she snarled.

Her arms were stretched in front of her, body in a kind of half-kneel half-squat, as she reached out to wring Winchester's neck. Rather, when she reached his motionless figure in the very dim light, her hands struck him squarely on his broad shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Margaret," she heard him mutter quietly. It was infuriating to hear him say it again!

Scoffing, she moved her hands inwards towards his neck but he quickly redirected her hands to be over his shoulders and behind his back. Before she could say a word, he had wrapped his arms around her back, pulling her body firmly against his, her face pressed against his shoulder in a bone-crushing hug.

"Can you ever forgive me?" he added, voice barely above that of a whisper, rocking her gently back and forth.

She attempted to backtrack by sinking back onto her haunches, only to have him squeeze her more tightly to him. He said not a word in the process.

"What are you doing?" she heard herself saying, after a half-minute or so of frantic thinking. His body shivered violently against hers and she swallowed, taken aback by Charles's sudden hug. He stopped his slight rocking motion.

"Isn't it obvious, my dear? I'm apologizing," he replied matter-of-factly. "My, you generate quite a lot of body heat."

He had tried this stunt before to a lesser extent when trying to warm his hands with her gloves. Now he was giving her an all-out embrace. At his partial admission of his true intentions, she glanced up at his face, so close to hers, his profile illuminated by the faint moonlight. He didn't look down at her, though she did notice the trace of a smile on his face. As another violent shiver ran through him, he readjusted his arms so that her body was practically flush against his. She wanted to pull away, which would have been customary, but she did find herself feeling warmer when pressed against his body. Finally she found her voice again.

"Ha. Apologizing," she said with a scoff. "You don't deserve to be forgiven."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Margaret," he remarked, a grim little smile on his face.

"Are you saying that hugging me is a desperate measure?" she implored, glaring up at him.

"'Course not," he replied as coolly as possible. "Merely this: if we are to die here tonight, perhaps you could consider forgiving me. I wouldn't want my offenses against you to remain a burden on my soul."

"Your offenses aren't going anywhere, Major," she retorted. "I hope they're heavy as hell on your soul, though I doubt you even have one."

"I'm hurt," he replied.

"Join the club," she shot. "I know why you're doing this. It's because you want to use me to get warm. You don't care if I accept your apology—that is, if you even mean it."

"I do mean it," he responded. "And as a token of my atonement, I am hereby offering you all I have left; that being, the warmth of my body. Isn't that why you came over here in the first place?" he asked, glancing down at her momentarily. "Huddling like this _is_ the most effective way to keep warm."

"Is that what this is?" she remarked, feeling the familiar sting of rejection.

"Is it not helping?" he replied. "I feel warmer already."

"Well, I don't," she lied. "You're freezing cold and not only that, you're shivering like a leaf."

"That can't be helped, I'm afraid. As soon as I am sufficiently warmed, the shivering will subside."

"Everything has to always be about you and your comfort, doesn't it?" Margaret scoffed, moving her face away from his shoulder. "Remember when you lent me your gloves for that cold spell? And even though you'd gotten that huge puffy snowsuit, you just _had_ to have those gloves back. Ripped them right off of me."

"No, I recall giving you some soup and when you'd removed the gloves to eat, I retrieved—"

"Same difference, Major."

"If it makes you feel any better, the Korean black marketeers stole that particular snowsuit from me… in addition to several cases of my vintage wine…."

"See? Always thinking of yourself. You couldn't go a single day without saying or doing something utterly arrogant."

She glanced up to see him shaking his head. "And you couldn't be more wrong," he stated.

"I smell a wager coming on," she retorted, narrowing her eyes slyly at him.

"Fine," he droned, another shiver racking his body. "Next Saturday would be a good time. You can shadow me all day and I guarantee you won't hear a single arrogant word from my lips."

"Why next Saturday?"

"No reason," he spat, too eagerly.

"Major, I'll find out on my own, if you won't tell me."

"Fine. It's my day off."

"And where will you be?"

He chuckled nervously. "Slumberland."

"No—you have to be conscious, Charles. How about tomorrow?"

"I'd rather not," he muttered. "The whole day will revolve around cleaning up the compound and I cannot be unarmed in front of Pierce and Hunnicutt during that time."

"Ha. Just like I thought. You can't do it," she replied, tsking. "You're completely incapable of swallowing your pride."

"I am not!" he retorted, grabbing a bit of the bedsheet that was loosely covering her and draping it over his lower arms. "Tomorrow it is. I'll prove you wrong. What is the wager?"

"You make it and I'll agree on it."

He stuck his chin in the air, considering.

"Fifty dollars." He heard her scoff.

"What a boring wager," she spat. "Can't you spice it up a bit? Losing money is nothing for you. Hell, that last poker game cleaned you out for a whole week and you didn't bat an eye."

"What then? For your temporary use of my phonograph? I only request you refrain from playing any of that boorish arrhythmic swill you call jazz…. "

"Ugh, even worse. As if _I_ have any records lying around!"

"I could let you borrow some, you know," he offered, peering down at her tenderly. "Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 in B Flat Minor in particular is quite a reminiscent piece."

"No— a thousand times. I have my radio—and that's more than enough." She rolled her eyes. "Next."

"How about the gloves I so _callously_ took from you before?"

He was getting warmer, both literally and figuratively.

"To keep?" she asked.

A hesitation before he answered.

"Yes, to keep," he muttered, defeated. So she'd be getting his gloves after all—that is, if he were to fail in his objective….

"No," she replied quickly, before she could change her mind. He was taken aback.

"Well, I can't read your mind, Major," he spat irritably.

"I would like you to wager the thing you cherish most," she explained. He scrunched up his face in confusion.

"That being?"

"Your dignity."

He scoffed at her response. Apparently she knew more about him than he'd presumed. He looked down at her, his breath coming out in clouds onto her face.

"And how, pray tell, do you go about taking my dignity?"

There was a pause, as she smiled knowingly at him. He stared at her for a while in silence, eyes widening as he did so.

"Are you referring to—the occurrences of earlier?"

"Yes, those occurrences, Major," she remarked. "I don't think you got enough, because you still managed to be an ass." He felt his pulse thud in his neck—that was supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience brought about by too much alcohol and complete blackness.

"If those… occurrences are what you are referring to," he replied, still feeling the sting in that region, "are you not aware that I did not find them completely without merit?"

"Guess you'll have to use even more willpower then," she retorted. "Is it a deal? One stroke for every instance of arrogance."

"But isn't arrogance a matter of perception?" he asked. "What you perceive to be considered arrogant may not be what I consider to—"

"So you're already admitting that you aren't even aware of when you're being an egotistical jerk," she interrupted with a toothy smile. She wanted badly to take out her anger over his earlier insult, and whipping him was a rather good way of going about it, regardless of his feelings on it. "I got this thing in the bag."

"You will be biased in your determinations," he retorted.

"So will you, being as you'd like either outcome of it," she muttered.

"Then why are you proposing such a wager?"

"You did, not me. I only said I liked the idea of you wagering your dignity."

"Well, what is your wager, in the event that I win?" he murmured, smiling confidently. She shrugged.

"The rest of the Dom Pérignon?"

He shook his head slowly, a naughty grin on his face. Though he did not verbally reply, she could see his response in the moonlit room.

"You were willing to pay me for it, as well as giving me that incredible massage. What do you _mean_, you don't want it?"

"The massage was a prize in and of itself," he murmured.

"You really have earned the nickname Major Ego, you know that?" she remarked with a scoff.

"You didn't let me finish," he replied, closing his eyes for an instant in annoyance. "It was a prize for _me_ to be able to administer that massage to _you_."

She felt herself smiling and suppressed the urge. She was still extremely angry with him over his nasty remark and couldn't suggest anything different.

"So no champagne then. Any requests?" she inquired. He thought for a moment, his eyes focused off in the distance. Finally, he looked down at her, his face lingering extremely close to hers.

"Only this—that you will allow me to court you properly."

"Ha, _court_," she said with a scoff, glancing up at him briefly. "I thought I wasn't marriage material, being a _sordid strumpet_, and all," she quipped.

"An untruth if there ever was one. The sordid strumpet comment was a simple play on words. You ought to be accustomed to those by now, having survived working with Pierce and Hunnicutt for so long," he replied. "Not only that, but you are certainly marriage material; otherwise, why would I want to court you?"

"I don't want your pity," she snarled, pulling herself away from him and putting at least two feet of distance between their bodies. "You can forget about ever hoping to court me, buster!"

"I do not pity you, Margaret," he replied, a shiver running through his body at the absence of Margaret's warmth. "My regrettable earlier statement was influenced by not only the anger I felt at your having allowed me to ruin my boot, but also the frustration I've felt time and time again at being spurned by you."

She looked at his face to see that he wasn't smiling in the least. Her face twisted with confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

"It seems you are immune to all that I have to offer a woman such as yourself, Margaret. Seeing you romance that deserter—Sergeant Scully, was it?—was far worse than being bound and gagged in Rosie's Bar by Pierce and Hunnicutt. That you would reject my persistent advances only to willfully enter that insipid traitor's arms was a direct blow to my self-esteem."

"So? You have plenty of that to go around," she shot back, not skipping a beat. "Do you honestly expect me to feel bad at reducing your self-confidence level by one percent?"

Even though her tongue was still sharp, Winchester's long-winded explanation for making such a hurtful comment was surprisingly having its intended effect on her. Charles had even bothered to remember the man's name who had wooed her on the dance floor that day, the handsome sergeant reappearing in her life at various times, though the relationship hadn't worked out in the end. Winchester's scathing insult now seemed derived less from fact and more from his being hurt.

"It was far more than that, Margaret. You don't know the real me, and so I would hope you'd give me the chance to reveal myself by allowing me to properly court you."

"Ha," she said with a sneer. "And how do you propose to accomplish that?"

"With fine dining, poetry, and intellectually stimulating conversation, amongst other things. Flowers, chocolates…"

"Promises you don't intend to keep…"

"A Winchester does not make empty promises, Margaret," he retorted at her interruption. "So are we agreed then? Twenty-four ego-free hours," he stated, squinting at his wristwatch. "Beginning now, at 0300 hours. Your unconventional methods… against a time-honored method. I should like you to get to know Charles Emerson Winchester the third."

**

* * *

****A/N: Did any of you pick up on a line from a David Ogden Stiers movie? Guess what? I posted another chapter today as well, so you have two to read (and/or to leave me feedback on!)**


	14. Wagyu Mean By That

**CHAPTER 14: WAGYU MEAN BY THAT**

**

* * *

**

At Winchester's falling silent, Margaret considered his offer. He'd revealed rather confidential feelings to her and had basically satisfied her need for a true apology from the man. Now only mildly disappointed, she put on a smile.

"Agreed."

There was a silence that followed her words. This relationship held some real promise for Charles. Unlike with Sooni, that dunderheaded Korean doxy he had inexplicably fallen for some time ago, Margaret had far more to contribute to the conversation and could appreciate his wide array of talents and interests. Donna Parker had been his true soulmate in the short time he'd spent with her, but that had only been three days—if she'd remained around him for any longer, surely he would have found something he didn't like about her. Margaret, on the other hand, had lived, eaten, and worked side by side with him for more than a year now at the 4077th and he still regarded her as far more than tolerable. There was certainly promise here. With that thought, he looked down at her, a big smile on his face.

"So, for the main course of your first meal, would you prefer pâté de foie gras or Wagyu steak?"

"You're jumping the gun, Major," she remarked, shaking her head. "Besides, I don't know _Wagyu_ are talking about."

"Ugh, I'll have you know it was pure _pun_ishment to hear you say that, Margaret," he said with an eye roll. "In regards to the abruptness of my inquiry, I have to order it ahead of time for it to arrive here before the end of the war. Ah—better yet, we can go to Tokyo on weekend leave, where you'll dine on the finest steak you've ever tasted in your entire life."

"Is that right?" she asked out of the corner of her mouth. He had such a delectable way of explaining things, especially food. She would let him describe the winnings—but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of thinking he had this bet in the bag. Predictably, he began to speak of the affair.

"Your taste buds will climax after sinking into the exquisite tenderness of the Kobe strain of Wagyu beef. You will be summarily blinded by the sheer density of the marbling of the steak at first inspection—the superb taste of it will remain forever in every crevice of your tongue, thereby spoiling every piece of meat you eat from that point forth."

"I don't want to be spoiled like that. Ugh, you bluebloods, spending money like it's going out of style."

"Believe me, Margaret, it's the best sixty dollars one can ever hope to invest in a pound of flesh, a rare delicacy direct from the prefecture of Kobe to your palate."

She grinned up at him, her smile just as large as his.

"You're not going to win this, Major. I'll be getting _my_ pound of flesh soon."

Yet another pun. Wincing at the phraseology, Charles's smile took on a mischievous slant.

"We'll just see about that."

She couldn't help but continue smiling, even though snowflakes were melting in her hair and giving her chills. Tomorrow Charles would lose this wager. He simply could not resist injecting a generous helping of Winchester ego into everyday conversation.

"If I may be so bold, my dear," he began, "may we reconvene on your mattress, away from the blizzard? As you can imagine, I generate a lot of body heat and I'd like to impart it to you."

* * *

"Geez, Louise. I never thought I'd see the light of day again," Colonel Potter said with a relieved smile, wrapped in his robe and wearing several layers of pajamas as he emerged from his tent. It was a winter wonderland outside, with nearly three feet of tightly packed snow blanketing the compound and shining brightly from a thick layer of ice atop it. Pierce and Hunnicutt took a step back to allow for their C.O. to move past them, but Colonel Potter stopped in place.

"Compound looks pretty slick," he admitted, pointing at the ice-coated surface. "I think it'd be best if we all stomped around to break the ice."

"If this compound is anything like women," Hawkeye remarked with a smile, "I find alcohol to be the best ice-breaker."

"It won't be a problem for me, Colonel," Hunnicutt added. "These _are_ my usual stomping grounds, after all."

"How many people have you freed from their tents?" Potter asked, clasping his hands behind him. "Did you get to check on the patients last night? Based on your smiles, I'll guess yes you did and yes, they're fine."

"And you'd be right. They slept like babies," Hunnicutt replied. Hawkeye looked irritated.

"Yeah, like babies dumped into trenches with machine guns only to be ripped apart like teddy bears and sent here to be stitched back up and sent back out."

Potter placed a comforting hand on Hawkeye's shoulder.

"Well, son, the good news is, the snow will give them an extension on their R&R. They won't be getting back out on the front lines anytime soon, if the roads look anything like this."

"Snow telling when they'll be leaving," Hunnicutt said with a shrug. The three men laughed.

* * *

"Major Houlihan?"

The scraping sound at Margaret's door grew louder with each knock and loud call. Charles blinked his eyes in the bright sunlight streaming through the tent's torn roof. Once his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he took in his surroundings, a massive throbbing headache overwhelming all his other senses. A significant amount of snow had fallen inside the building because of his hasty attempt to escape the tent the night before. Snow-blind, he squinted in the bright room to find that he had been sleeping on his side tangled in a mass of sheets atop Margaret's mattress. His arms were wrapped snugly around a particularly bulky ball of sheets—a ball of sheets with a blonde top. A blonde top? That bulk he was canoodling was….

"Major Houlihan?" the voice called out again, accompanied by a loud knock. "Are you in there?"

Charles's eyes grew wide with alarm as he glanced down again at the blonde head nestled against him. He had slept the entire night here with Margaret! They were practically tangled in a knot on her twin-sized mattress and it was now apparent that she'd stuck one of her legs between his knees at some point in the night, with both of her boot-clad feet wrapped around one of his calves, the bedsheets tightly wrapped around their legs like a python asphyxiating its prey. He had both of his arms wrapped around her upper back, her bulk so small that the tips of his fingers brushed his elbows. Her head was tucked in the crook of his shoulder, eyes closed peacefully in sleep. What would she do when she woke and saw them like this? And with Klinger just outside the door? He rolled his eyes, saying a little prayer to the skies that she'd refrain from screaming.

With the utmost care, Charles began to unravel the sheets that held Margaret's body so close to his. He was definitely feeling the pangs of a champagne-induced hangover, and shut his eyes to keep out any impending migraines to accompany his headache. Klinger was being persistent with his knocks and calls to Major Houlihan and yet, there was nothing Charles could say. He would not be seen in such a state! He was dignified, a gentleman who did not kiss and tell, and he would not allow himself to be the center of such a scandal! And yet, here he was, with a painful hangover, literally entangled with Margaret Hot Lips Houlihan. His eyes tightly shut, he lifted the final remnant of sheets from around Margaret's back, a tangle of sheets which pinned Charles's arms around her.

"Charles?" she muttered in a gravelly voice, causing him to suddenly freeze in place. He held his breath, waiting for Klinger's response. Instead, he heard a shovel striking the door as ice crackled loudly.

"Margaret, you must be very very quiet," he whispered, lightly touching her back. "Klinger is outside."

She was squinting now in the light, her makeup all rubbed off, looking utterly miserable. He found himself watching her with the utmost of tenderness, and shook off the feeling.

"What the hell happened—ugh, my head is killing me," she groaned. She looked over at the snow covering an expanse of her floor and shook her head.

"Do you not remember?"

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" she rasped, the volume of her voice steadily increasing, as she became aware of their entanglement. "Get your filthy paws—"

Immediately he clamped his hand over her mouth and held it there, staring wide-eyed at the door as he did so. He could feel her lifting her hands and attempting to fight off the hold, but he held fast. She couldn't help but wonder: had he been this aggressive last night? She couldn't remember exactly how it ended—how _had_ it ended?

"Shh! Margaret," he hissed, looking down at her. "Klinger's right outside the door!"

She could only move her mouth in protest behind his hand as she retorted, her voice loud but totally muffled. Finally she submitted, holding a finger in front of his face as if wanting to say something. He removed his hand from her mouth to permit her to speak.

"We didn't—do anything, did we?" she murmured. "The last thing I remember is when I finally tried to put you out of your misery, you… hugged me. It didn't go any further than that, did it?"

"Not to my knowledge; no," he replied, uneasy at her choice of words to describe why she'd lunged at him. So she'd wanted to kill him, most likely for the hurtful comment he'd uttered in addition to his tearing her roof wide open. He couldn't blame her.

Suddenly he was aware of Margaret gaping at him, her expression one of suspicion and fear.

"Don't worry, Margaret," he said in an attempt to appease her. He reached a clammy head up and pressed it against his pounding forehead. "We simply moved to a less snowy corner of your tent and huddled together to keep warm. Presumably we weren't awake for long after that."

"We must've drunk an awful lot," she muttered, putting her head down. So her hangover was as bad as his. He leaned down towards her face, not mindful of his morning breath.

"That we did."

"Major Houlihan?"

Margaret and Charles both jumped at the external sound. It was Klinger again, a mere seven or eight feet away on the other side of a wooden door. If he'd had x-ray vision, he'd lay eyes on quite a scene—Majors Margaret Houlihan and Charles Emerson Winchester III cuddling together on Houlihan's mattress, scandalously tangled in an array of bedsheets.

"Yes, Klinger?" Margaret called out. With a fearful intake of breath, Charles scrambled to his knees on the mattress, untangling the blankets from around his and Margaret's legs before managing to stand up.

"Are you okay in there, Major? You got an avalanche of ice and snow outside your door and we're digging you out."

"Of course, Klinger," she replied, digging her thumbs into her forehead in an attempt to massage away her pounding headache. "Are the patients alright?"

"They're fine, Major. But now you need to be patient. Don't worry; we'll have you out of there in no time."

At his reassuring words, Margaret sat up on the mattress and glared up at Major Winchester, who was standing in the center of the tent, holding his coat, jacket and boots with a look of mild disgust on his face.

"Get out of sight!" she hissed at Charles. "I don't want people assuming things!"

"Already on my agenda," he murmured back. With that, he again glanced feverishly around the room, finding a perfect spot to hide and striding over to it, placing the items he was holding into his hiding place. Before getting in himself, he had to ask an important question.

"So the bet is off, hmm?" He grabbed his forehead, staggering backwards a step. "Oh, God, my head…."

"Bet?" she blurted, then covered her mouth, her eyes wide. After several moments of thought and no verbal reaction from Klinger outside, recognition dawned on her. "Right, the bet."

He stared at her then, his attention all on her. Now he would be able to know if the hangover and the whole evening had been worth it.

Margaret glanced at the man standing before her, his blue eyes wide with fear and anticipation, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. This wasn't the picture of a jaded, irritable Hawkeye Pierce the morning after their romantic interlude—this was a man who was still as obedient to her as he'd always been. Had he not been transformed in some dreadful way by the events of last night?

"What do you think?" she ventured, crossing her arms, an eyebrow raised at him. He narrowed his eyes at her, a devious grin appearing on his face as he glanced at his wristwatch with the utmost of confidence.

"I'd say you have a mere twenty hours before you can expect your first taste of epicurean elegance."

She narrowed her eyes at him from across the room, her expression playful.

"Ha! You wish! The bet's on, Major."

* * *

"Attention, everyone!" the voice of Klinger rang out in the center of the compound. "Private Igor and the cooks have managed to scrape together some breakfast for us. Isn't that great news?"

"Does that mean we'll be getting our shovels back now?" Hunnicutt remarked.

Klinger rolled his eyes at the mustached doctor.

"Yeah, we still have to dig a couple more people out," Hawkeye chimed in. "Looked like Margaret's tent got the brunt of it, though."

Standing in the midst of the compound with a sizable group of the M.A.S.H. personnel in the clothes she'd worn yesterday, Margaret felt her face getting hot.

"Well, you know that they say," Hunnicutt added with a shrug. "Snow follows beauty."

Several groans were heard, including that of Margaret.

"So how 'bout breakfast?" Klinger said. "Last one there's a rotten egg!"

"Is that what's waiting for us in the mess tent?" Hawkeye murmured with a scoff. "Never mind."

"No, guys—I'm sure it's better than that," Margaret told the group. She thought about Major Winchester, still holed up in her closet. It had been a couple of hours since they'd gotten her door open and they'd all spent the entirety of the morning in the middle of the compound so Charles was kept in hiding. "We should all keep up our strength and—"

"Speaking of bad eggs, where's Major Winchester?" Potter grumbled, interrupting Margaret as he squinted in his search of the compound for the tall surgeon. "He should be out here helping us. Has anyone seen him?"

"I haven't seen him," Hawkeye answered. Hunnicutt and several of the enlisted men and women shook their heads as well. After a moment of hesitation, Margaret shook her head, but was approached by Hawkeye.

"Have _you_ seen him, Margaret?" the dark-haired doctor asked, grinning toothily from ear to ear. She froze in place, feeling her throat dry out.

"Nope."

"You were the last one who saw him," he said, walking in a circle around the nurse. "Be honest with me, Margie—did you kill him?"

"Of course not," she huffed in her usual way. She'd certainly tried to, before he'd pulled her into that bone-crushing impromptu embrace. "He has to be around here somewhere."

"He didn't come back to the Swamp last night," Hawkeye remarked. "Said he had an evening itinerary." He looked at the group of nurses standing in the middle of the compound. "Any of you nurses know anything about that?"

They shook their heads with distaste.

"He can't be too hard to track down," Kellye called out loudly. "He _was_ wearing that god-awful cologne yesterday in the O.R.. Doesn't anyone have a nose for these things?"

Charles shook his head in the cramped space of Margaret's closet, listening to his peers speak of him with such derision.

"I do," Klinger admitted. "He must've showered several times since then, because it's gone now."

"Well, keep a weather eye out for him, everyone," Potter announced. "We need his back in helping get rid of this snow."

"Has the generator been fired up yet?" a question rang out. Colonel Potter clasped his hands behind his back.

"Generator doesn't want to turn over—and our backup generator isn't doing any better," he replied. "We've been trying to contact I-Corps, but the phone lines are dead as well."

"What are we going to do?" various enlisted men and women spoke at once. "We can't run without electricity!"

"I've come up with an idea," Potter said. "We're going to have our very own wordless weatherman repair the damages. He knew about this blizzard ahead of time and yet he kept his trap shut about it. Our losing power and getting trapped in our tents could've been prevented if we'd been warned beforehand."

Sergeant Rizzo, who'd been standing near Father Mulcahy, noticeably cringed. Potter turned towards him, his expression stern.

"I'm talking to you, Rizzo. You're gonna fix this mess up and then you're gonna stop this forecast-for-a-fee business. If you know bad weather's coming, you're gonna warn everyone immediately—comprende?"

Rizzo looked crestfallen, his head drooping towards the ground. "Yes, Sir."

Gradually the people on the compound began to head towards the mess tent, with Rizzo approaching Colonel Potter and tapping him gingerly on the shoulder.

"Before I get started, Sir," Rizzo asked in his gruff voice, "could I get me some of that breakfast? I'm awful hungry."

* * *

**A/N: Two chapters at once! Pretty soon will be one of my favorite chapters (I think it's chapter 16, if I'm not mistaken…) Please leave me some feedback and it'll be posted sooner!**


	15. Fishing For Insults

**A/N: This is only a single chapter update this time, instead of the double chapter update like last time. Please make sure to read both chapters that were posted (chapter 13 and chapter 14). I noticed the hit counts on chapter 13 (A Wager Between Majors) were below that of 14 (Wagyu Mean By That) which means that some people may have only read the one chapter.**

**Thank you to those who have been reading along and those of you who've been reviewing with such helpful and encouraging comments! And now, for chapter 15!**

**Oh, and in regards to the quote from a David Ogden Stiers movie, it was a Cogsworth line from Beauty And The Beast, an ad-libbed line by David Ogden Stiers himself! Here's the line, said to the Beast about Belle: "Flowers, chocolates, promises you don't intend to keep..."  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER 15 – FISHING FOR INSULTS**

"The coast is clear!" came the frantic murmur of a woman into the tent. "Go straight to the showers! I don't want anyone seeing you leaving my tent."

"Yes, I gather that," Winchester replied coolly, coming out of the closet with a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness for Klinger clearing the compound. If I would have had to remain in that damn closet for another ten minutes, I would have asphyxiated on the stench of the cham—"

He abruptly stopped speaking as Margaret froze in place, her eyes the size of saucers. Someone had apparently called for her from across the compound. Margaret shut the door for a moment. "Be right there, Lieutenant!" she called out. Within a half-minute she opened the door again, checking back over her shoulder as she hissed a command at Charles.

"Go—now!"

"I'm not wearing any shoes, Margaret," he pointed out, standing before her in the center of the room. "And my coat is saturated with champagne. I left it in your closet for the time being."

"I'll throw some of your stuff in after you! Just get yourself over to the showers!"

"There are ample dry clothes in the Swamp," he murmured lowly, his head tilted downwards as he looked at her from under his eyelids. "I'm depending on you."

"And I'm telling you to get out! Someone's going to see you if you don't leave now!"

He glanced down at the white on the ground by her feet.

"The snow, Margaret," he whined, shifting back and forth on his socked feet.

"Suck it up, Major!"

* * *

Upon reaching the showers, Charles immediately entered a shower stall and went to work removing the caked snow from his legs and socks—the snow had been deep enough to reach his knees on his way to the showers and his lower legs were nearly numb. Hopefully Margaret would be by soon to drop off his clothes. In the meantime, he decided to take a shower to warm up and hopefully relieve his hangover, well before the barrage of people from the mess tent would arrive.

At the first drop of ice cold water striking his back, Charles realized that this was a stupid idea. Of course there was no hot water! The boiler had been without a flame for the entire evening yesterday. Grumbling, he hastily turned off the water, standing in the shower stall with tingling legs, the cold shock of the snow still ever-present, head pounding in agony. He dried off the frigid water with the non-snow-covered region of his trousers and changed back into his short sleeved shirt and shorts, glaring at his snow-covered pants and socks as his teeth chattered continuously. Where the hell was Margaret?

* * *

"Margaret," Hawkeye's voice called out, sounding surprised.

She spun around from her position by Winchester's bed, standing up abruptly in an attempt to hide what she'd been doing in the Swamp.

"What is it?" she asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"What are you looking for?" he asked her. It was then that he grinned broadly at her. "Wait—I think I know where you can find it. Here's a hint: it's on my bed."

"Ha, it's nothing," she replied with a dismissive wave of the hand.

"Then what are you doing nibbing through Winchester's stuff? That's our job."

"Well—uh," she stammered with an uneasy smile, not prepared for the impromptu interruption, "I think he took something of mine."

"Join the club," Hawkeye responded. "He's always taking stuff from me and Beej. Just yesterday, he had the gall to take a midmorning nap. You know how hard those are to come by?"

"Ha ha," she deadpanned. "I don't need your help, Captain. I know what I'm looking for. Could you tell Lieutenant Bigelow I'll meet her in a couple of minutes? She's waiting for me in the mess tent."

"You know, if you ever want to talk about what happened, I'm here night and day," Hawkeye suddenly murmured, touching her shoulder.

"What do you mean, talk about what happened?" she asked suspiciously, feeling panic rising in her throat.

"Your father," Hawkeye murmured. "My mom died when I was ten, so I can definitely relate."

"Ah," she replied, relief flooding her features. "I appreciate that, Hawkeye. Maybe I'll take you up on that offer sometime. I haven't thought about it as much as I think I should be doing—I've been distracted, you might say."

"I know what you mean," he commented, "but there's no right or wrong in how you handle death. Look at us; we all see it so often and handle it in completely different ways, but none of it's wrong. Wait—did you say distracted?"

"Yeah, I did. Been keeping myself busy so I don't think as much about it. It's still too raw."

"Is this the kind of busy I like to busy myself with?" he replied with a knowing grin, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Not exactly," she replied haltingly. "Could you just—go and talk to Lieutenant Bigelow? I'd really appreciate it."

* * *

The odor wafting from the mess tent combined with the never-ending line for the food convinced Hawkeye to wait a while before eating. After he'd informed Lieutenant Bigelow of Margaret's running late, he stepped out of the mess tent into the frigid air. There was a sizable pile of wood that sat next to the mess tent but it was covered in snow. Shutting his eyes, he thrust his hands deep under the snow atop the wood to pull out some dry logs from the inside of the pile.

An after-breakfast shower sounded perfect but surely the wood stove in the shower tent was on its last embers, if any. The shower tent would take some time to heat up and so he'd put restock the fire now to give it time to reheat the room. Hopefully Rizzo would get the electricity fixed by that point and there'd be minimal time before he was to be warmed up again.

Upon entering the shower, Hawkeye was met with a glare from Major Winchester, who was standing in a shower stall without the water running, looking to be wearing a t-shirt from what he could see.

"And to think, I thought only clothes could be dry-cleaned," Hawkeye remarked, grinning at the obviously grumpy man in the shower. "Where've you been all night, Chuckles? From the look on your face, it must have been worth it."

"Ha ha," Charles deadpanned. "I can tell you where I wasn't, that being the Swamp."

"We missed you, you know. It gets really cold in there without all your hot air warming up the tent."

Charles attempted to see behind Hawkeye, for he'd left the door slightly ajar behind him. Was this some kind of setup from Margaret—her first test of his resolve? He could imagine her standing right outside the door, listening for him to make some kind of arrogant comment that would cause him to summarily fail the bet.

He considered for a moment the likelihood that he could get Pierce to fetch him some clothes. There were several issues with this: firstly, Pierce would just laugh in his face; secondly, if Pierce did venture over to the Swamp, there was the chance that Margaret would be there; and thirdly, regardless of the first two outcomes, he would be barraged with questions.

"So what's going on here?" Hawkeye asked, gesturing at the shower. "You hiding or something?"

Winchester just looked at him. A big toothy grin lit up Pierce's face.

"Wait—is this some kind of self-inflicted punishment for compromising your honor last night?" Pierce remarked. "Don't tell me you actually let your hair down for once—well, what's left of it…"

Charles winced at the comment. Pierce was certainly itching for a good retort. Margaret was most definitely standing outside the door right now, he wagered.

"Course not," Charles replied, remaining in the shower stall. "It's just—I had forgotten that the hot water would be out."

"Well, it's not going to come back just 'cause you're standing there," Pierce remarked. "Colonel Potter's looking for you, you know. Lots of work to do today. Physical labor."

"Ugh. Sounds deplorable," he muttered. "While we're on the subject of hiding, Pierce, is that your motivation for being here?"

"I got firewood in my arms," Pierce shot back. "What does it look like I'm doing?" With a shake of the head, he strode past the shower stall on the way to the wood heater. "It's like twenty degrees in here. You'd be nuts to want to take a shower in here right now even if there _was_ hot water."

"True," Winchester remarked flatly. Pierce froze in place.

"Do mine ears deceive me or did I just hear Charles Winchester agree with me?"

"I believe that would be the latter."

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the aristocrat, Pierce deposited the wood into the heater, noticing the presence of a few remaining orange embers. At least the fire wouldn't have to be restarted.

"Then why are you in here?"

Charles opened and closed his mouth several times as he conjured up a valid-sounding response. Before the excuse could fully form in Charles's head, both men jumped at the sound of a knock on the door.

"Who's in there?" the voice of Margaret rang out. Charles remained silent, inwardly proud of his remaining civil to Pierce. Pierce glanced over at him confusedly.

"Just me and Charles," the dark-haired doctor called back. "Don't worry, we're both decent. Come on in."

"That's alright," she said. "I'll be back again soon." Charles rolled his eyes, an act fortunately unseen by Pierce. Now he'd have to wait even longer to get his clothes back. How long was he expected to remain here?

It was then that Hawkeye noticed the trousers and socks on the ground covered with barely melted snow. When he looked back up, he was smiling. "Are you not wearing any pants? Charles, you shock me. You aren't decent and yet you would've allowed a woman to assume that you were and walk right on in here. How indecent of you."

"I am wearing my shorts, Pierce," Charles deadpanned. With that, he stepped out of the shower stall, revealing his meager clothing.

"What did you do last night, anyway?" Hawkeye asked, noticing the lack of footwear in the shower tent. "Lemme guess: you stood outside all night trying to frighten the blizzard away. You do realize it's called a scare_crow_, right? Not a scare_snow_."

"You really are laying on thick this morning; you know that?" Charles droned.

"I'm laying it on thick because your layers are too _thin_. Were you walking around last night in that outfit? You must have drunk yourself into a stupor in order to handle that."

"I only wish I had," Charles remarked.

"But you did drink," Pierce said, pointing at him with a huge grin on his face. "You look almost as hung-over as you did during Captain Simmons' short tenure at the 4077th."

"Ugh, don't remind me of that." With that, Charles clutched his head, shutting his eyes tightly.

"No, but really—what did you do last night? Initiation rites for the Uijeongbu Polar Bear Club?"

Charles opened his eyes and blinked indignantly at his heckler.

"What are you talking about—this… 'Polar Bear' Club? Using our imaginations again, are we?"

"It's a real club, Charles. It's when you go outside and jump into ice-cold water in the dead of winter with basically nothing on."

"Ha, that sounds perfectly idio—I've never heard of such a thing," Winchester retorted flatly, catching himself in mid-retort.

"The only reason I know about it is through my _Bear Naked_ magazine. I can show you some shots of the Portland all-women Polar Bear Club in Maine. My old high school prom date's a member. You know, the magazine is a great recruitment device for the sport."

"How so?" Winchester asked. "I wait with bated breath to hear your reasoning on this."

"Believe me, just looking at those pictures will be enough to make you want to run outside and jump in cold water."

"Ha," Charles scoffed. "No amount of coercing could get me to do that."

"What are you talking about? Looks like you were already out there without a jacket on. That's the first step."

"I'm not taking the bait, Pierce," Winchester muttered, a smug little grin on his face.

"I didn't even know I was fishing."

"You're fishing for an insult, Pierce. Let me just inform you that today you will not receive one in return. My river of retorts has not been stocked."

Suddenly the intercom cut into their conversation.

"Attention all personnel! Incoming wounded! Choppers descending onto the helipad! Clear a space for 'em, will ya?"

"Great," Hawkeye remarked sarcastically, throwing his arms in the air. "Just when I thought we had the day off from getting more wounded, they find another way to sneak 'em in."

"Well, it _is_ the only way to deliver them in this winter wonderland," Winchester replied matter-of-factly. "At least we know we can't be getting too many."

The thundering of helicopter blades filled the air like a barrage of air attacks. Both men stared up at the tent roof above them. The roof whipped around like a tarp in a tornado, making loud snapping sounds as it billowed in the turbulent winds. Charles covered his ears in the din of landing choppers, noises that served to only enhance his hangover, and hung his head.

"I stand corrected."

* * *

"Well, aren't you coming?" Hawkeye asked, standing at the entrance to the showers. He'd watched Winchester stubbornly remain in place for several minutes now since the choppers had arrived, still wearing his meager clothing. His bunkmate's odd behavior thoroughly puzzled him.

"Go on without me. I'll be there shortly."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Pierce remarked, glancing down at Charles's bare feet. "You'd only be an inch shorter—still about 6'4". I wouldn't call you _shortly_."

"What are you blathering about, Pierce?" Winchester muttered, frowning with confusion.

"Isn't it obvious? You're not wearing any shoes! You gonna walk out there in your bare feet? Need I remind you, it snowed a little last night."

Damn it to hell. Charles rolled his eyes. Of course Pierce had to ask that question. Even the helicopters hadn't been distracting enough to veer Pierce away from that subject.

"Quite the misleading nickname you have, _Hawkeye_," Charles spat irritably. "I assure you; my footwear is here. Now go—I'll be right behind you."

"I wanna see 'em first," Pierce remarked. Charles's face darkened considerably. He spoke quietly at first, the volume of his voice increasing steadily as he spoke.

"Kindly remove yourself from my presence before I am impelled to forcibly extract you from this tent," Winchester raged, his voice loud and dangerous as he finished his tirade.

Pierce stayed planted where he was, hesitating. Winchester took an aggressive step towards him, his face an angry shade of red.

"What are you waiting for, Pierce?"

The raven-haired doctor shrugged.

"For the other shoe to drop… but that might be awhile, being as I haven't even heard the first one yet."

* * *

"Rizzo, have you figured it out yet? We've got incoming wounded."

The man lying in the large metal box housing the generator loudly snorted upon awakening, his lower body the only part of him that could be seen.

"Sergeant!"

Rizzo glanced up sleepily at the short man standing before him with arms clasped behind his back.

"Have I interrupted your private time?" the colonel huffed. "Just say the word, and I'll see to it you get more _private_ time than you ever expected to have at this point in your career."

Immediately Rizzo's eyes widened and he clambered to his feet, picking up the cigar that had been in his mouth and chomping down on it once again.

"All done," Rizzo said to Colonel Potter, standing ramrod straight beside the giant green generator box.

"Well, that was awful fast, Rizzo," Potter replied with a half smile. "What was the problem? Was there a short? A downed line? Did the generator get jammed with ice?"

"Fuel was frozen," he replied. "I came, I thawed, I…"

"Lemme guess," Potter interrupted, holding up his index finger. "You conquered."

Rizzo narrowed his eyes at his C.O., his face twisted in confusion.

"Conquered?" he replied bemusedly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Nah. After thawin' the fuel line, I just restarted Ol' Jenny here. That's what I'm callin' her—Jenny the generator. Catchy, eh?" With a little chuckle, the greasy mechanic patted the metal enclosure. "She's as good as new."

Potter rolled his eyes.

"Good, Rizzo. You can make up any pet name for it that you want, as long as _we_ can call it working. Now remember, however you're getting your forecast, you need to report it to everyone without delay. Comprende?"

"Course, Colonel," he said with a tipsy salute.

"What was the problem with the backup generator?"

"Out of fuel."

"So how did you—"

"Siphoned it from the jeeps in the motor pool," Rizzo interrupted, anticipating Potter's question. "Won't be drivin' those around for awhile…."

"Sounds like we don't have much time before Jenny and her backup run out of fuel again. We can't afford to lose power, especially at this time of year. About how much gasoline you think we got left?"

Rizzo stared upwards, deep in thought. Potter could only watch him closely awaiting the answer.

"Lemme get back to you on that," Rizzo replied with a lopsided grin.

"My birdie doesn't like to wait," Potter retorted, pointing at the pin on his hat and raising his eyebrows. "You come to me as soon as you have an estimate."

"Right, Sir," Rizzo commented, striking a match against his pants and relighting his cigar as Potter turned to leave. With his back turned, the colonel spoke again.

"I hope you weren't smoking that cigar around the fuel, Sergeant. You could blow the whole compound to smithereens."

"Course not, Colonel," Rizzo replied, eyes widening for an instant and then returning to their usual lazy half-opened appearance. "I was makin' sure my matches didn't get wet. In case you were wond'rin', Sir, they're workin' jes fine. It heps to know that if worse comes to worst, matches can still do the trick for heat an' light, ya know?"

* * *

"Aughhh, what the hell!"

Charles hadn't expected to be hit in the face with a pair of boots, and stumbled backwards into the shower stall, losing his balance. His back painfully slammed against the shower stall, his body sliding down it until he landed on the floor on his backside. Now seated with legs straight out in front of him, Charles glared at the door. A shirt, jacket, coat, and socks soon followed. It had only been two minutes or so since Hawkeye had left the shower tent for the choppers, and apparently Margaret had found a break in the action to deliver him his clothes without warning.

"Why couldn't you have tossed those in here first!" he yelled at the door, rubbing the back of his head.

The door opened at the sound. He held his breath, eyes wide and anxious.

"Well, what are you doing sitting on the floor?" Margaret fumed, hands on hips. "It's no wonder you got hit."

"I'll have you know, a pair of flying footwear put me here," he grumbled, pushing against the floor in an attempt to stand. "I was standing by the door before they entered in a violent fashion."

"Well, they happen to _be_ violent fashion, being military issued and all," she said, responding to his complaint. He rolled his eyes at her lame attempt of a joke, as she continued speaking cheerfully. "We have a long day ahead of us… and a long time for you to not be yourself!"

He removed his shirt with a scoff, tossing it onto the pile of snow-covered clothes by the shower stall. She watched with great interest his ability to do such a thing in front of her. Of course, she had had him strip down the night before. Maybe it was getting through that first time that now made doing it easier. Flashing her a sarcastic little smile, he reached down and fetched the dry shirt she had brought him.

"Ha," he deadpanned, his tone dripping with irony. "I'm flattered to know you think so highly of my true persona, Margaret."

* * *

**A/N: The next chapter was one of my favorites to write! I hope you are still following along! And as always, I love feedback!  
**


	16. No Cigar

**A/N: This was one of my favorite chapters to write! I think it 'reads' like an episode and I hope you like it!**

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER 16 –NO CIGAR**

"Suction. You know what; I've never seen so many choppers come in at once," Hunnicutt, in full surgical dress, remarked to the nurse standing beside him. "What was that, a dozen or so?"

"It was like a conga line out there," Pierce added, carefully clamping a leaking artery on his patient. "And what's more, the patients were delivered to us on ice."

"That way they keep longer," Hunnicutt replied.

"I couldn't even tell if I needed to put my last patient under," Hawkeye responded. "He was half-frozen when he got in here."

"I know what you mean, Hawk," Hunnicutt agreed. "I'm finding it hard to tell the difference between veins and arteries; everything's blue."

"Would you two keep it down?" Charles replied, after listening to their back and forth conversations for the last half hour or so without a word. From her position across from Pierce, Margaret glanced up with interest.

"No thanks; we'd rather keep it _up_," Hawkeye retorted, smiling behind his mask.

"I am currently in the midst of a rather delicate procedure, gentlemen, and I'd appreciate your cooperation for, let's say, an hour or so."

"One hour for a single procedure?" Hawkeye remarked. "What are you doing over there, separating a pair of Siamese twins?"

"Ha ha," Winchester flatly replied. "Actually—my patient was shot in the myocardium—several times. However, being—"

"Don't get your hopes up too high, Charles," Hunnicutt remarked. "That's a death sentence for sure."

"_If_ you'll let me continue," Charles began, highly irritated as he spoke, his teeth gritted together. "I agree that most of the time it _is_ a death sentence, but being as this patient's body temperature and pulse is slightly below that of a hibernating _frog_, I may just be able to save him… that is, if you two would kindly shut up."

Margaret watched Charles intently from her position across from Pierce, eyes narrowing at the balding surgeon. In response, he shook his head ever so slightly, narrowing his eyes right back at her.

"What are you looking at, Major?" Hawkeye murmured ever so quietly to his attending nurse. Margaret snapped out her gaze immediately.

"Nothing, doctor," she muttered. "I'm still recovering from a hangover, is all."

"A hangover?" he replied, voice muffled behind his mask. "You and Major Ego have the same problem this morning. Well, isn't _that_ the coincidence of the century?"

Now was not the time to be answering difficult questions. She exhaled slowly into her mask.

"It certainly is, doctor."

* * *

"I can't believe it; you brought that man back from certain death!" Hunnicutt exclaimed, marveling at Winchester's patient after he was closed back up, his vitals all strong.

Potter and Hawkeye were between patients and meandered over to the gurney, seeing the pink coloration of Charles's patient. Miraculously, the man had survived through the difficult surgery.

"We've seen this before, Hunnicutt; low body temperature is a valid means to overcome insurmountable odds," Charles commented, acutely aware that he was working under the watchful eyes and ears of Margaret Houlihan.

"Those are odds I can honestly say _I_ never surmounted," B.J. replied, admiration all over his face.

"Then Sir, mount them!" Charles proclaimed, a big goofy grin hidden behind his mask. "In all seriousness, Hunnicutt, his survival through that most delicate procedure was brought to you by Old Man Winter."

Charles glanced over with Margaret with a gleam in his eye. The fact remained that now was the perfect time to gloat and soak up all the praise, but he had a rather important wager to win.

"It wasn't just that, Major," Potter commented, lingering beside the taller man. "You really had a lot of faith in yourself and your abilities. Faith is key to accomplishment."

"I couldn't have said it better myself, Colonel," Father Mulcahy chimed in, looking at Winchester's patient with a big smile on his face, though it was hidden by his mask. Winchester bit his tongue. It would be so easy to say something in response to the heavy dose of praise but at extremely high risk that it would come across as egotistical to Margaret.

"What do you think, Major?" Potter's voice cut in. "Do you agree with that assessment?" Charles jumped at the direct question. This would be very difficult to answer. He could see now even through her mask that Margaret was grinning unabashedly at him.

"It's a simple case of mind over matter—though faith does play a major part," Charles began with a pleased little smile. "That is, to say, if you believe something is possible, you've just made it possible."

"Wait—did Winchester just give out sound advice?" Hawkeye remarked.

Hunnicutt shrugged. "Sounded an awful lot like it."

"Take it as you will," Winchester replied, glancing smilingly at Margaret as his nurse changed him into fresh gloves and surgical gown.

"I'd pat you on the back but then I wouldn't be sterile anymore," Potter said. "Good job, Major."

"'_kyu_," Charles replied, his clipped version of a thank you, and bowed his head ever so slightly to his commanding officer. "However, we mustn't count our chickens before they hatch. This man has a bumpy road to recovery."

"Hey, I resent that," Klinger commented with a frown. "I carry 'em to post-op as gentle as I can!"

* * *

"Nurse Able has graced us with her presence. Cover your privates!"

At shouting out the silly order, a joyful Hawkeye held his arms over his unconscious patient, a private in the U.S. Army with a kidney full of shrapnel.

Hunnicutt leaned down over his patient as well, with Potter even participating in the revelry. Charles Winchester was the only one who didn't move.

"Aww, Charles, you didn't listen!" Hawkeye remarked. "Have you no sense of modesty?"

"As a matter of fact," Charles began carefully, squinting at the chart his nurse was holding, "my patient is a corporal. Therefore, I am immune from your little game."

"If you don't play along, Charles, we'll be forced to administer some corporal punishment," Hunnicutt retorted, his eyes squinting in delight. Margaret couldn't help but gaze over in the direction of Winchester at the pun, locking eyes with the tall surgeon before giving him a playful wink.

At Hunnicutt's unintentionally personal choice of pun, Charles took in a quick breath, eyes inexorably drawn towards Margaret. In response to her enticing wink, he blinked several times, clearly rattled by the amorous attention.

Hawkeye Pierce had caught his nurse's flirtatious wink and his peripheral vision recognized its intended recipient. He took in a breath, disturbed by this odd situation. How could Winchester attract the likes of Margaret Houlihan? The man _had_ inexplicably dropped his ego for the day; had that been the only thing that had been keeping Margaret from pursuing him all this time?

"Could I get some more retraction here?" the raven-haired doctor asked, looking directly at Margaret, though her attention was still focused somewhere behind him. Not only that, but she was still clearly flirting with Winchester!

"Margaret," Hawkeye called out irritably. Still she didn't look at him. Still she was eyeing up a man that only yesterday she had smacked across the face, and for good reason.

Hawkeye rolled his eyes, taking a quick glance back at Winchester. Though he could only see the man's eyes, it was clear that Charles was besotted with Margaret, paying no heed to his patient in the meantime.

"Major, this _patient_ should be the main _re_traction," Hawkeye quipped to Margaret, who suddenly jolted back to her job.

"Hmm?" she muttered, clearly flustered. "Retraction, you say?"

"Yeah; pull that intestine back a bit more."

"Yes, Doctor," she replied, her reddening face thankfully concealed by her mask.

Hawkeye had to clear the air now, before he'd have to endure hours upon hours of inattention from his nurse, and a staggering blow to his self-worth every time Winchester was the unworthy recipient of her obvious interest.

"Could I have a quick word with you?" he murmured quietly to her, keeping his voice low enough so that no one else could hear. Concern came to her face and she stared at him, dead serious.

"What is it, Doctor?"

"Not here," he replied, glancing anxiously around as he spoke.

"Where then?" she said in a loud voice. He shook his head with frustration, silently shushing her, but it was too late. Margaret continued to speak. "We can't very well leave the patient." Suddenly dread filled her features and she quietly muttered her concern. "Wait—is the patient going to die—"

"No, it's nothing like that," Pierce replied, stepping away from the table and making his way for the door. "Just a second and we'll be right back on that kidney."

She hesitated.

"Are you kidding?"

"The only _kid_ in my statement was in the word _kid_ney."

"Pierce," Winchester called out to the man by the door. "I don't recommend you treading out into the snow in that all-white getup. If you happen to fall, we'll never find you."

Hawkeye could only roll his eyes and glance over at Margaret, who was delighted with the Boston-born surgeon's joke. Her eyes actually appeared to be glittering as she gazed over at his bunkmate. Sighing with frustration, Hawkeye stepped away from the door and walked back over to his table.

"Mind if I take your side for a while?" he asked. Margaret looked back at him and her eyes widened.

"My side of what?" she blurted, clearly caught off-guard by the vague request.

"The table, Margaret. My arm's getting cramped up."

"The bad kidney is on your side of the table, Doctor. It doesn't make any sense for us to trade sides."

"Oh, is that where that kidney bean all this time?" Hawkeye quipped. He watched her roll her eyes at the joke and he blinked indignantly at the unfairness of it all.

"Fine," he muttered, crestfallen. "Just, uh, watch what I'm doing here, Margaret. This is really delicate work."

"I don't know, Hawk," B.J. called out from behind him. "I think that what Charles did earlier today with that shot-up heart is going to trump us all for a long time to come."

Yet another reminder of Winchester's lucky day. Hawkeye found himself muttering a reply to his coworker.

"It was one hell of a risk and he pulled it off. But you have to remember, Charles always _has_ had a cold, cold heart."

"What do you have against Major Winchester, anyway?" Margaret hissed at him. "Just let him do his job."

"I will if you will," Hawkeye blurted, shrugging in the process. Immediately he felt like an idiot for blurting his thoughts aloud.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she muttered. Pierce grinned at her behind his mask, giving her a little knowing wink.

"Let me just say, ureter-rible liar, Margaret."

Hunnicutt let out a loud sigh in response to the pun.

"Man, Hawk, urine sane to crack another kidney joke. That was even bladder than the first one," the mustached surgeon quipped.

"Would you two lay off the pee jokes?" Potter called out. "My old bladder can't take the constant reminder of its load!"

"Colonel Potter," Winchester called out in a singsong voice, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Aww, Charles; just let him pee for now," Hunnicutt said with a grin. Hawkeye was soon to add to the commentary, looking at Charles but gesturing towards the colonel.

"I mean, can't you see it's pissing him off?"

Winchester grinned, a retort ready to go.

"At any rate, that's clearly preferable to being pissed _on_."

Margaret's smiling eyes in response to the good-natured banter only added to Hawkeye's misery, and he dropped the topic before Winchester's remarks physically drew Margaret to that side of the room. Never had the dark-haired doctor felt so helpless. He had always been the sole surgeon to flirt with Margaret and now he had competition in the form of an ego-free Major Charles Emerson Winchester III. It was utterly maddening.

* * *

"Damn it," Hawkeye cursed, leaning down over the face of his very-blue patient. "I'm losing him."

Pierce's patient struggled to breathe on the gurney, his face already an alarming hue of blue-gray. One of Hawkeye's nurses stood nearby with the anesthesia mask in her hands, while Major Houlihan informed him of developing problems. Several hours had passed since Winchester's myocardial miracle and the kidney case, and yet the doctors and nurses of the 4077th were still in the midst of performing their meatball surgeries on the helicopter-transported casualties.

"He's arrhythmic, doctor, and his blood pressure's dropping," Major Houlihan informed him, a stethoscope in her ears, its diaphragm positioned in the crook of the man's arm beneath a blood pressure cuff. "Sixty-five over forty-two."

"What the hell?" Pierce remarked irritably, throwing his hands in the air. "This is a nothing case—just a fractured pelvis. I didn't even open him up yet!"

"Maybe the bone pierced something," another of his attending nurses muttered.

"Only Picasso could make a person whose hip could pierce his lung," he shot back. "Get me an Ambu-bag; I'm gonna start chest compressions."

"Well, what _have_ you done," Winchester deadpanned, glancing up from a fresh patient.

"And the vulture of death swoops right in," Pierce shot back, making a face of distaste. Margaret glared his way, ready to claim victory. Winchester was not swayed and continued speaking.

"No, I'm serious, Pierce. What have you done with the patient?"

"He was just put under a minute or two ago with Pentothal. My scalpel hasn't even touched his skin."

"He might have other internal injuries, doctor," a nurse commented.

Hawkeye fervently shook his head.

"From what he told me five minutes ago, he fell out of the truck and was safely stowed away by the time the shelling started. I mean, the guy just told me breaking his hip was the luckiest thing that could've happened to him, because the place he was assigned to protect had he not been injured is now a crater. I'm sure he would have mentioned if he was in any other kind of pain."

Winchester, in the meantime, having not yet begun operating on his own patient, trotted over to Pierce's side, quickly scanning the patient's condition.

"He's allergic to the Pentothal," the balding surgeon announced. "He's in anaphylactic shock. He needs adrenaline."

"Since when did you become the expert on allergies?" Pierce remarked dismissively. "Move out of my way; I need to start chest compressions to get his heart rate stabilized. Nurse, my Ambu-Bag!"

"Trust me, Pierce; this is a bona fide allergic reaction to the anesthesia. Major Houlihan, get me an IV of adrenaline."

Without hesitating, she stood up from her squatting position in front of the gurney and ran to fetch the syringe. Pierce glared over at his fellow surgeon.

"Order around your own nurses, Winchester. I need all the help I can get right now." With that, Hawkeye began chest compressions on the patient, whose wheezes were high-pitched and frantic. A nurse squeezed an Ambu-Bag over the mouth of the patient, who was still struggling to breathe.

"Do you not recall my run-in with Dr. Halvorsen some time ago?" Charles murmured. "I attempted to cure the symptom, and she cured the cause. I was prepared to perform a tracheotomy on a patient in anaphylactic shock, a temporary fix for a single symptom."

Hawkeye glanced up from his compressions.

"Are you referring to Inga?"

Charles smiled grimly.

"That saucy Swedish surgeon taught me a harsh lesson in humility."

"Me too," Pierce said with a sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I'll take your—_her _word for it. Margaret—the adrenaline, stat."

* * *

"So out with it, Charles."

The balding surgeon languidly raised a mug of coffee to his lips, ignoring the dark-haired man sitting next to him. The last seven hours had been spent in surgery with not a peep of arrogance out of Major Winchester, and now Hawkeye, B.J., Margaret, Father Mulcahy and Charles sat at a table eating the most edible aspects of what was being served for lunch.

"I've been waiting around for hours. Just say it, will ya?"

"Say what, Pierce?" Winchester remarked, flashing Hawkeye a little grin, coffee mug in hand. He couldn't help but extend his grin over to Margaret, who was feeling melancholy over Charles's remarkable self-restraint.

"I told you so," Hawkeye blurted.

Charles's eyebrows rose.

"You did?"

"No—that's what _you're_ supposed to say," Hawkeye explained. "If it weren't for your pointing out the allergy, I probably would've lost my patient."

"Nah," Charles replied dismissively. Hunnicutt could only gape at Charles's curt ego-free response.

"What do you _mean_, nah? I _would've_ lost him, simple as that."

Charles shook his head.

"He would have remained right there on the gurney, so no, you wouldn't have lost him, Pierce."

"Ha ha," Pierce shot back sarcastically. "What is it with you, Charles? You're making me feel worse than ever today. Couldn't you just say something big-headed to tip the scale a bit?"

"Yeah, it's like you had your ego surgically removed. You're not fun to pick on anymore," Hunnicutt added.

"And not only that," Pierce remarked, holding up a spoon of grayish peas, "but paying you a compliment today didn't make me feel like gagging—at least, not right away. Unlike these peas."

With that, Hawkeye put the spoon into his mouth and pretended to retch.

"Oh, is that what those are," Hunnicutt quipped. "I figured them to be marbles. I was just about to get up and draw a ring on the floor."

Just then, Colonel Potter entered the tent. He strode right over to Charles and placed a hand on his back.

"See, it's days like these that makes me glad I didn't pass you on to Tokyo General," he said, patting Charles on the back. "Good job, son."

"'_kyu_," Charles murmured, still smiling unabashedly and looking back at his commanding officer. He chuckled pleasantly as he did so, arguably the happiest person on the compound. "Speaking of Tokyo—have any of you tried Japanese Wagyu steak?"

Most everyone around him looked confused and shook their heads. Potter strolled onwards towards the buffet line. Meanwhile, Charles's merry blue eyes scanned the people around him, settling on Margaret.

"For my next leave, I look forward to traveling to Tokyo with a lovely young woman and dining on that most prized of carnivore delicacies," he said, staring directly at Margaret. "What do you think, Margaret?"

Pierce and Hunnicutt exchanged confused glances. Hawkeye had been thoroughly disturbed by the occurrences of today between the unlikely pair, and it showed in his eyes. He watched with interest as Margaret glared at Charles.

"I'd say, better not hold your breath," she muttered bitterly.

"Now, Margaret," Winchester began in a chiding tone, "do you not believe I've earned the privilege, what with all the miracles I performed in a single shift—"

Suddenly he stopped talking, the smile disappearing from his face as he abruptly set down his coffee mug. His shoulders fell in defeat.

"Ah, there's the Charles we all know and love," Hawkeye remarked with a toothy grin, patting the tall man on the back. When Charles finally composed himself and managed to glance briefly in Margaret's direction, she was grinning ear to ear.

* * *

**A/N: So this was one of my favorite chapters to write! Did you like it? I hope that even though Winchester was holding back his ego, that he was still very much Winchester! Hopefully I'll be able to post a couple more chapters before Thanksgiving. Thanks for your interest!**


	17. A Wringing In Your Ears

**A/N: Thank you so much to those of you who read and those of you who reviewed! I'm sorry this chapter took some time to post-I was at my folk's place for Thanksgiving and their computer wouldn't open the DocX format file because it was an older version of Word! Please don't let that be a discouragement to those of you who reviewed! I posted the soonest that I could!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 17 – A WRINGING IN YOUR EARS**

"You've been looking glum ever since losing our bet," Margaret remarked, having followed Charles to the officers' latrines where he was presumably taking care of business inside. It was the only way she could get a word with him; ever since he had paid himself an impromptu compliment in the mess tent, he had been actively avoiding her. "It's not without merit to you—or don't you remember saying that?"

"Can't you see I'm busy?" a muffled sound came from within the small building. "Go away."

"I can't actually _see_ that you're busy," she replied, grinning unabashedly. "You're not a complete loser, you know. I'm surprised you've earned only one so far."

"Ha," he scoffed, "as if one swat could do it for me. It's not fair—I spend all morning soaking in praise like a sponge, allowing not a drop of it to spill out. Then _you_ come along and squeeze it right out of me."

"That was all your doing," she replied, watching him as he stepped out of the building with a roll of the eyes. "You just kept digging yourself in deeper with each word you spoke."

He looked at her then, considering her words. A smug little grin on his face, he crossed his arms.

"And yet, I've earned a grand total of one swat, hardly enough to bother with. You just now said you expected more by now. In essence, I have won."

"You still have about ten hours left," she commented. "Plenty of time to earn more. Don't kid yourself, Major. You lost and you're just going to have to deal with that."

"Attention, all personnel!" the intercom suddenly blared, making Margaret and Charles flinch. "Incoming wounded! All medical teams report to the helipad!"

Charles squinted up at the approaching choppers. It was interesting thinking about what this could mean: he was under no pressure to avoid being himself, which was a great relief. It was also true that his losing the wager was not without merit. He would not be a sore loser.

A devious smile appeared on Charles's face as he stared up at the approaching helicopters. Margaret could only gape at him.

"What's gotten into you all of a sudden?" she demanded, her voice firm.

"That's it!" he exclaimed giddily, flashing her a rare toothy grin. "The sponge is no more."

"What are you saying?" she replied, narrowing her eyes at him. He giggled with utter amusement.

"You'll find out soon enough."

* * *

"Now, let's remember, everyone," Potter called out to the surgeons and nurses in the operating room, "have faith in yourselves and your skills. These popsicle patients of ours have more of a chance of surviving devastating injuries—"

"In _my_ hands, at least," Charles cut in with a little chuckle. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves now." Margaret looked up with shock and was met with the smiling eyes of Charles across the room. She gave him a little nod of recognition, which he returned in kind.

"Anyway, as you all know," Potter added, glaring briefly at Winchester, "their blood is thicker when it's cold, which means they're less likely to be bleeders. Having them hypothermic also means their tissues need less oxygen. That means pneumothorax isn't quite as life-threatening as it would be in the summer—but it's still top priority."

"Just remember, kids, blood is thicker than water," Hawkeye joked.

"And Pierce's skull is far thicker than blood," Charles added, grinning devilishly at the back of Pierce's head.

"That's why you never see me wearing a helmet," Hawkeye commented right back, glancing back at Charles with a little teasing glare. Charles was quick to respond.

"It's not because of that, as you well know, Pierce."

"Why is it then?"

Charles shrugged.

"No need protecting that which is never used. You need only look at me to see a well-used brain."

_Ooo_s were heard throughout the operating room.

"How can you tell?" Hunnicutt remarked, looking up from his patient. "Does using one's brain lead to hair loss?"

"If that is the case, clearly you use your brain more than Pierce does his," Charles retorted with a giggle. "And Klinger uses his the least of all the men. I won't even hasten to formulate a statement regarding the nurses."

With that, Charles shot a naughty grin Margaret's way, and she could only stare at him in utter shock. Hawkeye couldn't help but notice the continual rapport between the balding surgeon and the blonde nurse. It was as if Charles was flirting with Margaret from across the room. More surprisingly, based on Margaret's response of mere shock, it seemed that Charles wasn't being flat-out rejected by her.

"Ouch," Hunnicutt murmured in reply to Winchester, shaking his head as he spoke. "Guess the modesty and wisdom this morning was just a flash in the pan, eh, Chuckles?"

"In a word, Hunnicutt," Charles began, his eyes twinkling with merriment, "only idiots are prone to using idioms off the cuff."

"Six," Margaret muttered to herself, glancing in Winchester's direction yet again to see that he was no longer trying to hold back. In fact, it seemed as if he was going out of his way to make pompous remarks. And rather than deliver them with a bored, irritated air, his remarks were delivered just as jubilantly as Hawkeye's, if not more. Even so, Potter was not impressed with Winchester's condescending jokes.

"Major, it's high time you got off your high horse," Potter said gruffly. At that, a loud guffaw of laughter erupted from the balding surgeon.

"I'm surrounded by idioms," Winchester remarked, cracking up behind his mask. It took several minutes before Charles could stop snickering. Everyone else in the operating room either looked confused or annoyed, Margaret being one of the former. Potter leaned towards Pierce and Hunnicutt.

"Tell me the truth, boys; did one of you slip something in his coffee today?"

* * *

"I nearly lost count in there," Margaret huffed, as she slid past Major Winchester on her way to get a cup of coffee after the patients had all been moved into post-op.

"I figured as much," he commented dryly, leaning towards her. She held up a finger but he grabbed it, lowering it back to her side. On his face was a mischievous smirk. "Thirty-three, including that quip."

"I thought you said you aren't aware of when you are being arrogant," she hissed, pulling her finger away.

"Not typically, but I wanted to make my statements of today as unambiguous as possible to avoid any discrepancies in count."

She was taken aback by his boldness. So he clearly wanted to lose this wager and as devastatingly as possible. Was he not keen on the idea of sitting tomorrow?

"So you did it on purpose," she murmured, watching Hawkeye enter the mess tent looking worse for wear.

Winchester patted her on the head like a child. "Aw, you're smarter than you look, Major."

Margaret shook her head and sighed. "Thirty-four."

"Thirty-four?" Hawkeye suddenly blurted, appearing next to the blonde nurse and bumping into her shoulder suggestively. "Bet I can guess what follows," he said, glancing down at her chest level. He looked into her eyes then, grinning unabashedly. "C."

"Ha ha," she deadpanned, holding a coffee cup under the dispenser. "_Can_ it, Captain."

"That reminds me: anyone ever tell you you got a nice set of cans?" Pierce said with a snicker.

"Pierce, you are speaking to a woman deserving of respect," Winchester cut in. Hawkeye glanced at Winchester's chest then looked up at him.

"I wasn't talking to you—besides, you gotta be at least a… 45, I'd say," Hawkeye retorted. "I was talking to Major Houlihan."

Hawkeye looked at Margaret, giving her puppy dog eyes. She stared right back at him, acutely aware that her time spent speaking to Charles had attracted Hawkeye's attention.

"Don't worry; I'll respect you in the morning," Pierce commented teasingly to her. "Speaking of which, your place or mine?"

"You never give up, do you?" she replied, shaking her head though secretly thrilling at the male attention being bestowed on her: Charles Winchester at her right, defending her honor, and Hawkeye Pierce on her left, attempting to take it from her.

"Nope, never," Hawkeye responded. "Speaking of never giving up, what was with you today in the O.R., Charles? This morning you were mister nice guy and then you turn into the very picture of pomposity. What gives?"

"The latter session consisted of my merely clearing the air of the stench of your ill humor."

"Clearing the room, more like it," Hawkeye commented, a grin on his face. "The patients are the only ones who can take your quips lying down—course, they have no other choice in the matter. We would have all been out of there if not for them."

The three took a seat at a table, Charles and Margaret side by side and Hawkeye across from them. The wince Charles made upon sitting was lost on his two companions. Hunnicutt soon joined them.

"What was with you today, Charles?" B.J. commented immediately, sitting down next to Hawkeye. "Your ego sleep in and try to make up for lost time?"

"Pierce already covered that line of questioning," Charles drawled.

"Not true," Hawkeye replied, shaking his head fervently and pointing at Charles. "You gave me a smartass answer."

"In other words, I answered as you would have."

"True—but aren't you above the antics of someone as depraved as me?" Hawkeye retorted. "Are you telling me Major Charles Winchester the third cannot deliver a forthright answer?"

"I can deliver it, Pierce, but I'd prefer to leave it in its packaging," Charles muttered back, an enigmatic smile on his lips. With that, he moved his knee under the table and nudged Margaret's leg. She flinched noticeably at the unexpected touch and everyone at the table saw her reaction.

"What's going on between you two?" Hawkeye asked, his eyes suspiciously moving between the pair on the other side of the table. He tried to not appear as irked as he felt. "Don't tell me you had something to do with Charles's schizophrenic* episode in the O.R. today, Margaret."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered firmly, shrugging as she did so. Charles stifled a smile as she continued speaking then glanced furtively at Charles and then at the surgeons across the table from her. "I'm sure I have nothing to do with his behavior today."

"A Greek tragedy is what it was," B.J. commented, glancing over at Hawkeye, who nodded. Charles and Margaret wrinkled their brows with confusion.

"Yeah, it was like a kind of catharsis," Hawkeye began. "He made us all feel like crap at first with his show of compassion and humility in the morning… only to turn right around and bolster our moods exponentially with the triumphant return of his arrogance. You know—Charles Oedipus Winchester III does have a nice flow to it," Hawkeye added with a nod. "And the initials are suitable as well: COW."

"Ha ha," Winchester deadpanned. "Is that idiocy supposed to pass for an analogy around here?" Charles groaned. "Please. You've gone and hanged yourselves with that one."

"Oh, is that right?" Hawkeye countered. Hunnicutt could only chuckle in reply.

"Yes, Pierce," Winchester continued, a grim smile on his face. "Just hearing drivel like that makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a brooch."

* * *

"I'll be back later. I'm on duty in post-op," Hawkeye commented as he stood beside the table after the short coffee break in the mess tent. It had been a long day of casualties and Hawkeye was tired but couldn't take a nap right away. Hunnicutt, on the other hand, stayed seated with Margaret and Charles, who had to hide their frustration over not being able to continue the conversation they had begun upon entering the mess tent. The three watched Hawkeye retreat from the tent, shielding his face from the bitterly cold winds as he left.

"Just to be clear, there's nothing going on between you two, right?" B.J. blurted brazenly, his eyes moving between the pair sitting across the table from him.

"Course not, Hunnicutt," Charles replied with a chuckle.

"Ugh, how could you even suggest such a thing?" Margaret replied simultaneously with Charles's response. The balding surgeon gave her a sidelong glance at the genuine disgust in her voice.

"Right," Hunnicutt replied with a satisfied smile, remembering how Hawkeye had confided in him in post-op about Margaret; surely Hawkeye would be relieved to hear this. "Just checking."

"If you ever find yourself wondering again, just listen to him speak for five minutes and then put yourself in my position," Margaret added, giving Charles a kick under the table. Winchester wasn't sure whether to be reassured or insulted by the sudden kick and so he kept his expression neutral.

"I dunno, Margaret; you have to admit, this morning he was quite the charmer," B.J. replied. "I hadn't realized his ego was detachable until today."

"There are many things you don't know about me, Hunnicutt," Charles muttered, smiling knowingly.

"Ha! I'm sure of that," Margaret added, grinning toothily at Charles and then at Hunnicutt, who looked a bit baffled at her enthusiastic response.

"Right," B.J. replied, his smile fading as he realized the current nature of Charles and Margaret's relationship wasn't as clear-cut now. "And I'm better off for it."

* * *

After Hunnicutt had finished what coffee he could stomach and discreetly headed out of the mess tent, the conversation that had been interrupted by Hawkeye was finally able to resume between Margaret and Charles.

"What if we'd been in there all day, Major?" Margaret muttered. "I've never seen so much arrogance filling such a short amount of time. What was the average, one wisecrack every six minutes?"

"That's about right," the balding man murmured, after considering for a moment. "Course, if we'd had more patients, I would have paced myself differently. Did you notice the silence that fell over Pierce and Hunnicutt once I'd begun the verbal assault? I think a full thirty minutes went by with nary a word."

"That's because you were ridiculous in there. Every time they made a comment you made them regret ever opening their mouths."

He smiled to himself, his eyes twinkling with merriment.

"I can't decide what's better—quelling my ego or amplifying it. Both extremes have their benefits."

"Charles, the point of this whole wager was to prevent you from doing what you did in there just now."

"And I tried—valiantly, I might add," he replied with a little smile. "But once I'd lost the wager, what else could I do? I wanted to make the wager worth your while."

"You mean, worth _your_ while," she remarked. "How about cutting your losses and keeping your mouth shut?"

"I'm hurt," he muttered, making a pouty face. "If you detest such a sizable portion of my persona, why bother with it at all?"

"Good question," she shot back viciously. "You tell me." His face fell at the scathing remark from her. He could not bear the sting of rejection when he'd already made himself so vulnerable to her the day before. The playfulness he'd been displaying was gone, his face troubled. So this was how it felt to be on the receiving end of a nasty insult from someone he cared about. It was no wonder she'd found it difficult to accept his apology for his own spiteful remark the previous night.

With remnants of genuine hurt in his eyes, he cleared his throat and began his explanation in a low murmur.

"I gather that it is based upon your recent realization that there is far more to me than meets the eye. You were intrigued by the happenings of yesterday morning and wanted to delve further."

Of course his reasoning for her sudden interest in him had to be completely and utterly selfish. Of course he hadn't considered the fact that she needed to vent her frustrations, and his all-too-willing body had been the way she'd beaten her frustrations out. Major Winchester was too self-absorbed for his own good; that was obvious.

"Is that what you think?"

He balked at the comment, clearly hurt by it and more than a bit unnerved by Margaret's sudden burst of irritability towards him. Unbelievably, he found himself stammering. To Margaret, he looked very much like a broken man for a few moments, more vulnerable than she'd ever seen him. Though his anguished expression was brief and covered up with a sip from his coffee, it had lasted long enough for Margaret to notice it.

Charles's misery struck a chord with her, and she felt a strange wave of guilt for berating him again and again over the course of a mere two days. It was utterly shocking to her that Winchester was enduring her barrage of surly comments without simply storming away. He didn't have to put up with it—he wasn't obligated to stay next to her or to tolerate her moodiness. Certainly her argumentative remarks made Donald refrain from calling her for weeks on end and at most probably made him cheat on her. Charles's unwavering loyalty and obedience to her was empowering and endearing both the same. She found herself sighing with a heavy heart. She'd thoroughly exhausted any ill will towards the blue-blooded man beside her and by his being such a willing punching bag, he had successfully decreased her frustrations.

"I'm sorry," she muttered lowly, keeping her eyes focused downwards.

"For what?" he asked her immediately, blue eyes wide with confusion.

"For being so snippy with you," she replied with a sigh. "You've been unbelievably patient with me and all I do to repay you is make you feel like crap."

"That is where you are mistaken, Margaret. A Winchester cannot be made to feel like crap. It is not in our nature." His eyes were playful but his tone was highly arrogant. She couldn't decide if he was stating what he believed to be the truth or if he was poking fun at himself.

"But seriously," she stated, laying her hand on his own. "I'm sorry. I haven't been myself lately. I haven't been handling my dad's death as good as I thought I would." He looked down at her hand upon his, blinking at her misuse of _good_ instead of _well_, but he smartly held his tongue. Margaret Houlihan was apologizing to him, an extremely rare occurrence.

"I understand, Margaret," he replied, looking back up at her with a gentle smile and giving her the subtlest of nods. Her hand still remained on his own and he wasn't about to move or get up for any reason.

"You know, I think Hawkeye is on to us," she murmured, removing her hand from his own and glancing suspiciously around the tent. Thankfully a group of nurses sitting nearby were talking amongst themselves and hadn't seen her put her hand on Major Winchester's hand. At the removal of Margaret's hand from his own, Charles nearly sighed with disappointment but caught himself. She continued speaking, putting her hand down in her lap. "I don't think our little wager was that obvious, was it?"

'Course not, Margaret. He's simply upset because your attentions were focused—elsewhere."

"Ugh, I don't like the idea of him upset," she muttered. "There's no telling what he'll do."

Charles frowned. "Does it matter what he does?"

"You don't know all the pranks Hawkeye used to play on Frank. Drove the guy daffy."

"Surely you jest," he sputtered. "Pierce and Hunnicutt play pranks on me every chance they get. Would it matter so much if he had an additional reason to do so?"

"It would, Major. He would drive you nuts just like he did to Frank."

"I was under the impression that your nuptials pushed Major Burns over the edge."

She stifled a knowing smile.

"I know Hawkeye contributed plenty to Frank's breakdown. I just don't want to raise anyone's suspicions. This doesn't need to turn into some kind of three-ring circus."

"Fine," Charles remarked. "We can sit here and talk as always over a steaming cup of brown water passed off as coffee."

"Can't," she replied. "Right now I need to call my sister."

"Why?"

"My father died."

"Ah—right. I am willing to discuss this at any time with you, you do realize. And what of your mother?"

"Egh, they've been divorced for almost a year now. If she cared enough to be upset, she'd be too drunk to take a call."

"It's 6:30 pm here. That would mean it's 5:30 am in Boston. Are you telling me your mother would be inebriated at 5:30 in the—"

"Yes, Charles, that's what I'm telling you. She's an alcoholic."

He swallowed the multitude of comments he could make on such a subject. Margaret was from a broken home, the product of a tyrant and a lush. Her personality and propensity for violence made more sense now. Just then a group of nurses who'd been sitting two tables away got up and left the mess tent, leaving only the two of them in the large space.

"And your sister—does she typically take calls at such an early hour?"

"My sister's in Tokyo right now," Margaret shot irritably, moving to stand up. She felt him grab the cuff of her sleeve and yank it down sharply. She was unprepared for this and found herself being seated.

"I don't like to be left in suspense, Margaret. Your gauche segue is just a thinly-veiled excuse for you to leave the table. Tell me; how have I offended you?"

"I'll tell you how you've offended me—thirty four times over," she replied quietly, sitting up ramrod straight, her expression stern but with a hint of amusement. "Tonight. Twenty one hundred hours."

He looked over at her with great caution, attempting to read her eyes. Her current mood was indecipherable.

"Where?" he blurted, feeling a distinctive tightening of clothing, suddenly glad they were alone.

"What do you mean, where?"

At her terse reply, he leaned close to her, his breath on her ear. The heat of it sent a shock into her system, and she flinched. His voice was like silk against her ear as gooseflesh appeared on her skin. "I will gladly take my punishment, Margaret, but I don't want the whole compound being alerted of my submission to you. After all, I have a reputation to uphold. It's not every night that a deafeningly loud blizzard snows us in."

"Then recommend a place," she replied, crossing her arms. He thought quickly, blurting out the first idea that came to mind.

"What of that cave half a mile or so away? The one we were forced to inhabit dur—"

He was interrupted by a loud scoff from her.

"Don't you remember how sound carried in here?" she retorted, hearing him sigh in response.

"I could bring my phonograph, Margaret, and I could put on Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings in C Major. It would be as if we were seated in a music hall—ah, what a stupendous idea!"

"You mean _stupid_, right? You lost your wager. The only thing you're going to be hearing is the sound of my hand smacking you on the—"

His hand shot up and instinctively covered her mouth. Her voice cut off immediately with the motion, and she gaped over at him warily, eyes wide and expectant.

"Margaret, keep it down," he cautioned, looking around and slowly lowering his hand from her face. "Fine. Forget about it. It was a stupid idea. How about we just borrow a jeep—egh, right, the snow. Never mind."

"We're not getting anywhere, Major," she remarked, looking impatient.

"That is true, both literally and figuratively," he said, pondering. He sat staring at his empty mug of coffee for a minute or two in silence as she thought about her sister's response to Howitzer Houlihan's death. More than likely Nancy would already know about her father's death, as well as whatever funeral arrangements had been planned. It was unfortunate that Margaret was kept out of the loop during her tenure in Korea.

"I've thought of something," Charles suddenly announced, a big smile on his face. "It's perfect."

"That being?"

"_Flying Tigers_."

She flashed him a look of utter bemusement. He could only grin back at her, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Margaret, don't tell me you've never heard of it. It's one of those boorish John Wayne action films."

"_Flying Tigers_ is a film? No, I haven't," she replied. "What's it about?"

"That matters not," he retorted curtly. "All that matters is that I, Charles Emerson Winchester the third, will be anonymously sponsoring a movie night tonight in the mess tent showing that particular film—with unlimited drinks and popcorn."

"Why are you bothering? You and I won't be able to watch it."

"Exactly," he countered. "A diversion that the whole compound will be glad to participate in. The perpetual drone of plane engines combined with a tent chock full of intoxicated patrons means that we will neither be seen nor heard."

"That's quite a bit of money you're going to put up, to pay for drinks for everyone in the M.A.S.H."

"Ha, pocket change," he chuckled. "Not only that, but I can be assured there will be no outsiders striving to take advantage of this rare act of hospitality from yours truly, what with the roads in such dire condition and all."

"True," she replied to his latter statement, feeling flattered at Charles's conjuring such an elaborate scheme just to spend some alone time with her. No one had ever pulled out all the stops for such an encounter, and the mere thought of it was enough to brighten her mood considerably. Now she was smiling, a fact Charles was glad to note.

"So the reel is already here?" she inquired carefully.

"Are you kidding?" he replied with a confident chuckle. "Colonel Potter is an aficionado of all things cowboy-related and John Wayne is the epitome of the film cowboy."

"That I know, but is it physically here—"

"The supply room," Winchester interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. "Saw it about a month ago when I was restocking sponges. There's a whole stack of John Wayne films in there, including _Flying Tigers_."

"If you find John Wayne's films so boorish, as you say, how do you know any more about the film other than it being here?"

"I recall the poster plastered everywhere back in '42, shortly before I graduated medical school," he explained. "All one has to do is look at the picture and the billing to decipher the substance of the film. It's pure testosterone, which means it's bound to be deafeningly loud."

Perhaps she had misread the true persistent spirit of Charles Winchester. He was not ready to give up on this odd little affair. True, he wasn't the kind of man she usually went after: tough, exceptionally rugged and masculine men who made her feel sexy and feminine and who dwarfed her in size. Well, Charles did fit the bill on the final point, more so than most of the men she had been with. He towered over her a good ten inches, the top of her head barely reaching the apex of his broad shoulders. Ah, broad shoulders; that was another feature she drooled over. So he fit two physical requirements, and his money could iron over the other requirements. She could overlook his deficiency in ruggedness and aggression for the time being, especially being as he _was_ spending ungodly amounts of money on this evening alone.

"So you're actually going to do all this," she began, her voice trailing off.

"Course, Margaret. We Winchesters always honor wagers, no matter how outlandish they are."

"Ha," she spat, smiling as she shook her head. "Do you know what I'm going to say?"

He smirked at her then, his face positively glowing.

"Thirty-five."

* * *

_*until 1968, the term schizophrenia referred to multiple-personality disorder as well_

**A/N: I love, love, love reviews and I am now back at my usual computer and able to post new chapters!**_  
_


	18. Winner And A Movie

**A/N: Thanks for your feedback! I have removed a sizable C/M type scene from this chapter being as H/M is quickly approaching (the next chapter—I promise!) This is a very long chapter, by the way! Lots of Hawkeye and Hunnicutt conversations!  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER 18 – WINNER AND A MOVIE**

B.J. Hunnicutt walked straight through Klinger's office into post-op to find Hawkeye rapidly pacing back and forth in the aisle, his face etched with concern.

"Hey, Hawk; how are the patients doing?"

"Fine, fine," Hawkeye replied quickly, continuing his beat without pause.

"Then what's with all the pacing? Something bugging you?"

"It's Major Houlihan," Hawkeye admitted. "She's got some kind of camaraderie going on with Charles and it's driving me crazy."

"They're just friends, Hawk," B.J. replied soothingly.

"How do you know? Besides," he added, "Charles doesn't have any friends."

"I asked them."

"You did what?" Hawkeye cried, freezing in place. "What possessed you to do that?"

"You did," B.J. said. "And honestly, I was a bit curious too. Remember when Charles first arrived at the 4077th? Trying to impress her with his culture and sophistication?"

"Yeah," Hawkeye added. "Can you believe, the nerve of that guy, neglecting to give us a helping of his fancy food and instead taking it to her tent? Serves him right that he got food poisoning."

"And don't forget his allowing her to wear his gloves."

"And her almost always sticking up for him in the O.R.," Hawkeye added. He was met with a confused look from B.J. Shaking his head, he corrected himself. "Wait—that's not what I'm going for. I'm making an argument for unrequited love on _his_ part." At that, Pierce threw his hands in the air. "Right! How could I forget his trying to win her over by consoling her after telling _us_ what pranks to pull on_ her_!"

"Well, she's no dummy," B.J. commented. "She figured him out, and not a moment too soon."

"Yeah, unlike the one that fell on top of her! Never thought I'd be jealous of a dummy with the name of Little Mac…"

With that, Hawkeye sat down, his elbows on his knees as he laid his head on his hands.

"Ugh, never thought I'd be jealous of Major Winchester, for that matter."

"I just told you they're just friends, Hawk. What do you want me to do, make them swear on it?"

"I can read you like a book, Beej. You don't know for sure either," Pierce murmured, glancing up at his friend. "I don't know what's wrong with me. One minute, I could care less if Margaret's canoodling with Colonel what's-his-face or Sergeant whoever. The next, I'm willing myself not to poke out Winchester's eyes with a syringe."

B.J. sat down next to Hawkeye, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"What are you talking about? That's not unusual. Especially given the heavy dose of snobbery he administered today."

"It's for a different reason. Today in surgery he couldn't stop staring at Margaret—he was flirting with her shamelessly."

"How can you tell? You can't see anything but eyes in there, Hawk."

"I can tell. Believe me, I know all about making eyes at someone, and he was doing it to Margaret. I even asked her to switch places with me and she refused."

B.J. shrugged, not sure why it was such a horrible thing to witness.

"So?"

"So she wasn't outright rejecting him. God knows I know her look of rejection, and she didn't do it today."

The mustached doctor scoffed.

"That doesn't mean that—"

"She's really gone cuckoo since hearing of her father's death. It's not like her to allow someone like Charles to pursue her. She wants tall, dark charismatic men, not some pompous pantywaist who can be brought to tears with a single slap."

"Pantywaist?" Hunnicutt responded, chuckling at Hawkeye's use of the word. "You need to get this off your chest, Hawkeye. Tell her how you feel. It's no help telling me."

"I should," Pierce murmured, nodding to himself. "That's what I should do."

"There you go, _should_ing all over yourself. Just do it. At the worst, you'll be right back where you started."

"At the best, I'll be right where I should be."

"And where is that?"

"Between Margaret and Charles. Preferably right up against Margaret and at least twenty feet away from Charles, on the other side of a wall."

* * *

"Good evening, Sirs," Klinger commented, entering the post-op ward from the main compound.

"Hello, Klinger," B.J. greeted back. All Hawkeye could do was shake his head in disbelief, lifting his head as Klinger took his place in front of the pair as they sat on an empty patient bed.

"Tonight there's a movie night in the mess tent," Klinger announced excitedly. "All expenses paid. There'll be an announcement about it later over the P.A. but I thought I'd tell you guys now in case you wanna get a good seat. It's filling up fast."

"What do you mean, all expenses paid?" B.J. asked. "In case you've forgotten, we don't typically buy tickets for film showings in the mess tent."

"That's because I'm talking about the beers, booze and popcorn! Igor's bringing over cases upon cases of it now from the Officers Club. Apparently our anonymous sponsor told Private Igor to bring a big pile of snow into the mess tent, and now the bottles are just stickin' out of it, ripe for the plucking. Did I mention there's free alcohol?"

"You gotta be kidding me," B.J. murmured, shaking his head. "Who's this anonymous sponsor anyway?"

"I can't say," Klinger replied, pretending to zip his lips. "'Cause then he wouldn't be anonymous anymore."

"Can we have a hint? Who all's invited to this soiree?" Hawkeye inquired, glancing up at the company clerk. Klinger's smile grew.

"Everyone at the 4077th."

"The only person who could afford footing the bill for that would be a certain Major Winchester," B.J. commented. "Is he our anonymous sponsor?"

"Can't say, Sirs. The sponsor swore me to secrecy."

"It's gotta be Charles," Hawkeye added. "His pockets are the only ones deep enough to hold that much money. C'mon, Klinger. We know it's him."

"We know it's him; just say it, Klinger," Hunnicutt insisted.

"Fine—you got me," Klinger said with a sigh, holding his hands out in surrender. "Major Winchester's sponsoring it. Could I ask you guys to please keep this to yourselves? He wanted to remain anonymous."

"Has he gone completely nuts?" Hawkeye cried, standing up with a start. "Why would he do something like that?"

"I dunno," Klinger replied with a shrug. "I'd ask him, but I can't find him anywhere."

"When does the film start?" B.J. asked. "And what is it? I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Lemme guess—" Hawkeye began. "It's a two hour long ad attempting to persuade us simple folk to invest in Winchester stocks and bonds." With that, he flashed Klinger a knowing grin. "That's the catch; am I right?"

"Nah, I'll bet it's a film oozing with culture and sophistication," Hunnicutt said. "Is it _Wuthering Heights_? I'll bet whatever it is, it stars Laurence Olivier. No, wait—it's _Hamlet_, right?" He closed his eyes, putting a hand to his head. "Oh, woe is me, to have known what I have known, know what I know… about Charles Emerson Winchester III!"

Hawkeye brightened at Hunnicutt's comment and looked over at Klinger.

"So which one of us is right?"

"The film starts at twenty one hundred hours—basically, in another forty minutes," Klinger replied, checking his wristwatch. "Neither of you are right, unless Olivier has some kind of unbilled role; it's called _Flying Tigers_."

"I remember now—that's a John Wayne film. I think it's been around for almost a decade," Hunnicutt recalled. "Never saw it myself, but I did entertain the idea of going. Peg's not a big John Wayne fan but I've caught a couple of his films."

"Winchester is a John Wayne fan?" Hawkeye blurted, making a face of complete puzzlement.

"Well, that's the film he's showing to the camp," Klinger said with a shrug.

"I'm flabbergasted. He's gotta be kidding, right?"

"I'm just following orders. Film's already loaded into the projector."

Hawkeye turned to the mustached doctor still seated on the bed.

"Do you think he's trying to kiss up to Colonel Potter?"

"If that's the case, it's about time," Hunnicutt responded, shrugging. "They're always at odds in some way."

"Eh, I doubt that's what he's doing," Klinger interrupted. "Only me and Private Igor know that he's the anonymous donor, and that's only because he had to make arrangements."

"Then what's his M.O.?" Hunnicutt asked, scratching his head.

Hawkeye frowned deeply. He gasped in realization of an idea, his eyes wide.

"Wait—does Major Houlihan like John Wayne?"

Hunnicutt merely rolled his eyes and shook his head at Hawkeye's silly question. Even so, Hawkeye was not ready to quit just yet.

"Will you confront him with me, Beej? This has to stop."

"You're on your own, buddy. I, for one, want to see the film—and I wouldn't mind free drinks. You're telling me you don't want free beers and booze? What do you have against John Wayne, anyway?"

"Charles needs to be confronted, is all there is to it. There are some things a man just can't run away from. Sorry, Beej."

B.J. was unabashedly smiling now. Apparently Hawkeye was himself a John Wayne fan. The mustached doctor smiled before speaking.

"Don't apologize—it's a sign of weakness."

* * *

Upon Captain Hunnicutt's arrival to the mess tent, the building was already packed with nurses and enlisted men. He scanned the crowd suspiciously for signs of Winchester but couldn't find him, which should have been easy enough considering his quarry was nearly six and a half feet tall and missing most of his hair. The snow pile at the front of the mess tent was a welcome distraction, with quite the selection of beers sticking out of it, and he grabbed his first bottle. Private Igor stood off to the side of the room, with several bottles of hard liquor and mixers on a makeshift shelf behind him. B.J. could hear various enlisted men and women murmuring to themselves, attempting to guess the identity of the anonymous donor, spouting out every name but Winchester's. Clearly an act so generous was not expected of the arrogant yet wealthy major. Just then the official announcement was made over the P.A..

"Film night beginning in 5 minutes in the mess tent! Free alcohol and snacks, so who cares what's playing!"

The mustached surgeon had left Hawkeye pacing back and forth in the post-op ward and saved a seat next to him in case he was going to show. It was then that he spotted Sergeant Rizzo, who had made the fateful forecast the day before.

"Rizzo," he called out, watching the short man turn around, glancing around suspiciously for the source of the voice. B.J. lifted his hand and beckoned him over. "Rizzo, over here." Soon Sergeant Rizzo was standing next to him looking puzzled, chomping on an unlit cigar.

"What is it you want, Sir?" Rizzo inquired in a gravelly voice. Hunnicutt took a swig of his beer and crossed his arms.

"How is it that you know more than I-Corps about the weather?"

The greasy man shook his head with a smile.

"That I can't tell ya."

"Oh, is that right, _Sergeant_?"

The shorter man rolled his eyes at Hunnicutt's attempt to pull rank.

"That's right. However, I _will_ say, Sir, that Major Winchester had a lot to do with it."

Hunnicutt recalled Winchester's suspicious absence from the Swamp the night before. It was certainly possible that he had been aware of the weather ahead of time and prepared accordingly. So not only was Winchester rumored to be fooling around with Margaret, but he was also sitting back and allowing the camp to be sabotaged by inclement weather? As annoying and pompous as Charles was, he was no saboteur and certainly not one to keep his mouth shut when he was the only informed person in a crowd.

"So you're telling me Winchester knew about the snow last night," Hunnicutt insinuated.

"Not exactly," Rizzo began with a toothy grin, "but his donations really _hept_ fund my training."

"He's being really odd lately," Hunnicutt said, thinking aloud. "Are you telling me Major Winchester is bestowing his money to enlisted men now?"

"Yeah, quite the about-_vase_," Rizzo said with a sneer, referring to his 100% daily interest loan with the tall surgeon over a piece of Chinese pottery.

Just then a voice called out from behind Hunnicutt.

"You seen her, Beej? Cause I can't find her. She's nowhere in the mess tent."

Hunnicutt felt someone touch his back and turned to see Hawkeye standing before him looking frustrated.

"Can't say I've looked very hard, Hawk," Hunnicutt remarked, as Rizzo quickly slinked away. "She's probably around here somewhere. Why don't you get yourself a beer and sit down? Just relax—it can wait 'til tomorrow."

"You're right," Hawkeye replied with a sigh. "But then, where's Charles?"

* * *

"What are you holding?"

Charles Winchester froze in the doorway of Margaret's tent, quickly turning his head to look behind him. When he saw that there was no one around, he returned his gaze to Margaret, his expression puzzled at her question. Her stove had been restocked and the room was cozily warm; in addition to this, the roof of her tent had been repaired as well as the bed frame. Everything was back in order and the snow was gone from the interior of her tent.

"That," she said, pointing at the bag under his arm. "What is that?"

"Do you mean this?" he said with a clever little grin, smoothly pulling out a bottle of wine. "Though this is by no means a substitute for your Dom Pérignon, I brought along a Montrechet 1947 in case you'd finished off the champagne."

"Well, you're right; it's gone."

His blue eyes widened at her admission. He hadn't expected to hear that.

"You drank it… all?"

"No, Klinger did."

His jaw dropped, a wave of jealousy washing over him. He swallowed loudly.

"You had Corporal Klinger in here—today?"

"I traded the rest to him in exchange for a speedy fix on my roof and my bed frame, no questions asked. He did his job well, wouldn't you say?"

Winchester shook his head with utter disappointment.

"Only because that was a priceless vintage, Margaret. If he _hadn't_ done the job to your satisfaction, I _personally_ would seek him out, hold him up by his bootstraps and shake every last drop of it out of his Lebanese lips."

"I'd like to see that," she murmured, appearing to blush. Charles was confused for an instant at her response, but then looked around her tent with alarm.

"Ugh, that nosey little weasel—he probably found my clothing in your closet. How could you do something so brainless as to invite him in here? He knows, Margaret; I'm sure of it."

"No he doesn't," she replied, crossing her arms across her chest, a confident smile on her face. "I threw away your clothes and your boots and I sprayed a little perfume. Didn't really even have to do the last thing, being as the smell of the spilled champagne alone covered everything."

"Are you saying you _disposed _of my jacket? My pins were on—"

He stopped talking as she pulled out the little gold oak leaf that he wore on his lapel signifying his rank of Major in the U.S. Army as well as his gold caduceus pin, holding the shiny objects in the palm of her hand.

"Ah," he murmured, taking the items. "Thank you, my dear."

With a sigh of relief, he put the items in the pocket of his trousers. When he looked back up, she could see that he was still troubled by Klinger's earlier presence in the tent.

"How did you explain away the bed frame and the roof?" he inquired.

"My deal entailed no questions asked, and so he asked no questions. Besides, the pile of snow in the middle of the room could have caused the ripping of the roof and the breaking of the mattress. I'm sure that's what he figured happened."

"Might I remind you; this is _Klinger_ you are talking about, Margaret. Ugh, this is certainly not the last time I'll be hearing of this," Charles groaned. He was interrupted by a sigh from Margaret.

"Are you going to stand in the doorway forever? I don't think you have to worry about Klinger announcing anything when you're well on your way to doing it yourself. Get in here, Major, and shut the door behind you."

* * *

"Where do you think they are?" Hawkeye whispered from his seat. A barrage of hushed _shhh_s answered him.

"How should I know?" Hunnicutt murmured with a shrug, now on his third beer. If Winchester was willing to pay for everyone's entertainment, he'd take full advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime hospitality.

The mustached doctor was met with the same bunch of _shh_ sounds and he leaned closer towards Hawkeye to speak.

"What's the big deal if they are together right now, anyway?"

"I had her first," Hawkeye said, sticking out his lip in a pout. "She can do way better than him—like me, for instance."

"And what if they're not together? That's completely possible too, Hawk."

"Well, if that's the case, then I've missed out on a hell of a lot of dialogue for nothing," he replied, gesturing at the screen.

"Make that two of us," Potter suddenly grumbled from two seats away. "Pipe down, Pierce; my favorite part's coming up."

* * *

"Margaret, will you not even consider it?"

Charles Winchester gestured at the book of poetry clutched tightly in his hand as the blonde nurse stood opposite him, holding a very different kind of item: Sophie's riding crop.

"We had a wager and you lost, remember?" she growled. "I thought you Winchesters honored wagers—isn't that what you said?"

"One request, first: is it possible that we make the same set of wagers for tomorrow?" he asked too eagerly. Her eyes went wide with disbelief. He was clearly trying to stall her, and yet, he wanted to take the exact same risk the next day? It didn't make any sense.

"Are you serious?"

He smiled back at her, his eyes deviously narrowed.

"As serious as a myocardial infarction. You shall see then the error of your ways in having refused my proposed enrichment of this evening." He took a step towards her, his free hand reaching out to touch her free hand. "I have so much to give, Margaret, if you'll only let me."

"You aren't going to take no for an answer, are you?" she murmured, taking a deep breath.

"'Fraid not, my dear," he replied, his smile not wavering.

"Fine. The same wager for tomorrow."

"And when I am triumphant, we shall meet at this very time and place tomorrow evening. Repeat it back to me, Margaret."

"Tomorrow, 2100 hours."

"Good. You shan't regret losing to me, I assure you."

* * *

Several minutes later, Charles had stowed his poetry book back into his coat but stood face-to-face with Margaret, his hands in his pockets, looking awkward and uncomfortable. She huffed with frustration, tapping him on the hip with the riding crop, watching him gape down at it as if it were a parasite getting ready to bore into his skin.

"You asked for this, Major," she muttered. "We don't have much time. It's already 9:15 and we haven't even gotten started yet."

"As you recall, the last time this… occurred… I was quite inebriated and in a rather different state of mind compared to my current sobriety. I honestly never expected to lose the wager today. At least let's open the Montrechet and have a few glasses, loosen up first."

"Are you telling me you spent an ungodly amount of money to ensure our privacy just so you could sit with me and recite poetry?"

He chuckled nervously, his eyes wandering around her tent.

"I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love," he murmured, giving her a timid smile.

"Food of love?" she scoffed. "Are you kidding me? Romantic poetry is nice, but I wouldn't call it that! What century are you from?"

"I cannot lay claim to that. It's a quote, Margaret, from Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_. Don't tell me you haven't—"

"That kind of reading doesn't interest me."

He looked into her eyes then, his eyes a vivid blue.

"No?"

"You don't know me at all, Major. You say you want to woo me properly, but you don't even _know_ what woos me. I'm not the kind of cookie cutter debutante you're used to, one who'll swoon over flowery words and flickering candlelight."

He rolled his eyes.

"There _is_ no, as you say, cookie cutter debutante whereupon I base my assumptions of romance. I can play it by ear, Margaret. For instance, never would I have dreamt in a million years what happened yesterday could happen to someone like me—and yet it did. How do you explain that, hmm?"

He followed his explanation up with a smile of challenge.

"You did surprise me at first but since then, you've thrown your conscience into the mix and gone back to being predictable."

The statement struck a chord with him. It had been many months now, but he recalled very similar words being uttered from Sooni, who had equated him to a sleeping pill as they had their last date together in Rosie's Bar.

"Is that what you've chosen to believe?" he declared, straightening his back. Without saying another word, he strode to the door. She held her breath, disgusted that he was about to walk out on her.

Rather than open the door, he locked it. He turned to her then in profile, an impish grin on his face, nodding to the instrument in her hand as he placed his hands on either side of the door.

"Shall we, then?"

* * *

"Aww, isn't that just precious; Woody and Nurse Elliot on a date," a very drunk Hawkeye commented with a sneer to Hunnicutt, who stared transfixed at the black and white film on the screen. "Winchester's just rubbing it in now."

"_Shh_," B.J. warned, now on his fourth bottle of beer. "Come on, Hawk, just watch the film, will ya?"

"I have to find her," Hawkeye said, standing up at his seat, ignoring the cries of "sit down" all around him. With that, he stumbled over to Private Igor.

"Your finest rotgut, Igor," he requested, staggering as he stood in place, slamming his hand down on an invisible bar.

"I think you've had enough, Captain," Igor murmured as he wiped out a glass tumbler, disturbed by the condition of the doctor.

"No, no," Hawkeye exclaimed, a toothy grin on his face. "As long as Charles treats, my drinking's not complete."

Several people yelled out _shh_s including Colonel Potter, while a bunch of others reacted to Hawkeye's mention of Charles as the benefactor. At the sound of their voices, Hawkeye whipped his head around to look at the complainers.

"Why are there so many of you?" he asked, squinting at the annoyed crowd. It was then his attention turned to Father Mulcahy, who was sitting on the end of a row quietly sipping a beer. Hawkeye staggered towards him, pointing indiscriminately and grinning. "Father, I didn't know you had a twin! Can I call him Uncle?"

"Would you like to sit down, son?" Father Mulcahy asked, concern etched on his face.

"Captain Pierce," Igor began, taking a step towards the dark-haired doctor. Hawkeye whipped his head around to look at the bartender.

"I don't believe it!" he exclaimed. "Three Igors! Three-gores! Ugh, does that mean the food will be three times worse?"

Igor shook his head worriedly.

"Why don't you go sit back down and I'll bring your drink to you in a second?"

"Actually, on theh-cond sot," Pierce began with a cheek-puffing burp, "my stomach degs to biffer." His hand shot up to cover his mouth as he proceeded to stagger out of the mess tent. Hunnicutt could only shake his head as he watched his friend retreat from the mess tent. Thankfully the barrage of zooming plane engines would be able to drown out the sound of Pierce getting sick.

* * *

Charles Winchester basked in the afterglow of what had just occurred. The anticipation of the last few strokes, combined with Margaret's keenness for drawing the punishment out made the end a moment to remember.

After several minutes had passed, he composed himself and redressed, facing her with his hands in his pockets. It was still very difficult for him to look her in the eye. Staring at her waistline, he took her hands in his and lifted each of them to his mouth to kiss them.

"That was… most excellent, my dear," he murmured, his cheeks rosy as he released her hands. "I should like to repay you for this. What would you have me do?" At his question, she smiled to herself. Now she would finally experience some gratification for allowing Charles to enter into her personal life. Her smile remained as he continued speaking.

"I can give you another invigorating massage, or if you'd like I can fetch my phonograph and we can just lie back in your bed with the Montrechet and—"

"How about a reversal of what just happened, but without the riding crop?" she offered, raising her eyebrows excitedly.

Charles was not an aggressor; that was for sure. She couldn't remember the last time that she _wasn't _the aggressor in an encounter. Now, years ago—those experiences of those days of yore, when she'd participate in such role play with countless generals and colonels, all she had to do was play along. She missed those days of relative submissiveness. Perhaps with Winchester's unwavering obedience to her those days could once again be possible, and this time she wouldn't be degrading herself for her career. She hadn't appreciated the true enjoyment of play-acting in those days because she'd been merely trying to get ahead. Now she wanted to experience role-reversal for the excitement and the change of pace it would give her routine existence. He froze for an instant at her admission, his smile quickly fading and then returning.

"What are you saying, Margaret; that you wish to be swatted? You've quite the wicked sense of humor, my dear."

She sighed with frustration, her voice very small.

"No, I'm serious, Char—""

He interrupted her with an amused chuckle, shaking his finger in her face.

"I know this is a test. You're trying to see how far you can push me, the boundaries of what a highborn man is willing to do. Well, I'm sorry, Margaret, but I am incapable of regressing to such… Neanderthal behavior. I'm sure you understand." With that, he winked at her.

She rolled her eyes, frustration building.

"Tell me, Margaret," he replied, "I passed your test; am I right? Now, my dear, what is it you would have me do? Do tell—it can be anything."

"I already told you."

"I get it," he remarked with a dismissive wave. "I know I must have shocked you to the core with my little kink… But be assured, I am a lover, not a fighter."

"That doesn't mean that you can't—"

"You're really in a joking kind of mood tonight, aren't you?" he asked, tickled pink. "As if you, of all people, would ever request something like that! You, Major, thrive on domination—you implement it every day. Besides, only a deranged woman would _want _to be physically abused. And you," he said, taking her hand and kissing it, "are the opposite of deranged, my dear."

"Thanks," she muttered, feeling horribly self-conscious. Embarrassed beyond measure, she wanted to be alone, wanted him out of her tent. If he hadn't believed her to be joking, she probably would have felt less humiliated than she did at present. Clearly Winchester was not the kind of man to fulfill her innermost desires. She had revealed a rather intimate secret with him and he had refused to believe it. Such comments of derangement made her paranoid; was that what she was, an unhinged woman?

"Oh, look at the time," she suddenly announced, glancing down at her wristwatch. "The film's about over now, isn't it? Guess you'd better get back to the Swamp before your absence is noticed."

He gave her a puzzled look.

"But I thought—Margaret, the film was a mere diversion for our more… carnal activities, not a limitation on our evening as a whole. I'd hoped we could—"

"No, Major," she replied with a smile, though her mind was still reeling from his earlier comments. Was she truly disturbed in her fantasies? Her games with the countless generals and colonels had been along the lines of what she enjoyed: a kind of role-play with her giving and receiving some discipline in the meantime. She missed those days of climbing the ranks while partaking in such… stimulating activity. Was she so wrong to want to play the submissive every once in a while? A lifetime of being dominating and strong was taxing, to say the least. She _needed_ the change of pace.

"What do you mean, no?" he insisted, his smile fading fast. "Margaret, I presumed it'd be like last night, only we wouldn't have to sleep on the floor this time, thanks to Klinger and his belly full of vintage champagne—"

"You can thank the snow and ice for that once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, Major," she said, striding around him to the door as he turned to face her. "If we hadn't been stuck in here last night, you would have been right back at the Swamp, where you belong."

His mouth opened and closed like a fish's, his blue eyes filled with shock.

"Once in a lifetime? I'm a bit lost, Margaret, because I thought—"

The click of the door unlocking stopped him mid-sentence. Margaret's face was emotionless as she spoke, her hand on the doorknob.

"Goodnight, Major."

He was crestfallen and stared at her, dumbfounded. Was there any silver lining to this harsh moment?

It was then he remembered the wager. She was obligated to uphold her end of the wager—essentially, waiting for him to say something pompous. He'd show her. She'd be left waiting all day for words that would never come. And tomorrow night, she'd be shutting her eyes in ecstasy at his elegant approach to romance and the act of wooing. He wouldn't give her the chance to change her mind; they had a deal, and that was that.

"Until tomorrow then," he murmured, his tone suggestive though she didn't pick up on it, his mouth partly smiling but his eyes solemn. It was then that his eyes looked off in the distance and then briefly upwards as if recollecting something, his expression bittersweet. His light eyes again locked with hers, poetic words slipping smoothly from his tongue. "Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, were those hours – can their joy or their bitterness cease?"

She hesitated then, her eyes registering confusion. If there was one man who would be allowed to read poetry to her, it would be Major Winchester and his perfectly smooth, silky voice. Apparently her hesitation was what he had been aiming for. A ghost of a smile on his lips, he gave her a polite little bow and took a step towards the door.

"Goodnight, Margaret."

A flicker of surprise flashed across her face at his quick concession, immediately followed by a grim smile. So he wasn't going to push the issue any further? He was even more spineless than she'd first assumed! He had the propensity to argue, and argue well, so why wasn't he even going to try to debate her on this, to at the very least learn the reason for her kicking him out? How could he be satisfied with her terse goodnight, one that she had left surrounded by silence and no good explanation?

"Goodnight," she muttered, her voice tinged with disappointment.

She closed and locked the door immediately after he'd stepped out of the tent, hearing his footfalls crunching across the snow, the sound fading and altogether disappearing in the night. He was gone.

* * *

Margaret Houlihan shot up in bed at the sound of persistent knocking at her door. It had been less than a half hour since Major Winchester had gone and probably only ten minutes since she'd fallen asleep. A smile came to her face as she turned on her table lamp, her mood immediately brightening. She could feel it in her gut; Charles Winchester the third had returned to win her back. Would he have some chocolates with him, perhaps, or some weepy poem to recite to her? He'd have to do far more than that to get back into her good graces; she'd certainly see to that. Maybe he'd realized that she wasn't so demented for wanting what he himself found pleasure in doing.

She adjusted her satiny coral-colored pajamas and stood in front of the door, licking her lips and wiping her eyes, hoping they weren't red from her crying. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to the sound of a thud, a gasp escaping her lips at the sight in front of her.

* * *

**A/N: I'm sorry for all the near but not quite H/M occurrences so far! You can be assured that they are coming in the next chapter! Would you like to guess at who's at Margaret's door? Your feedback is wonderful and very helpful, so please consider leaving more of it when you can!**


	19. Crocked Eye

**CHAPTER 19 – CROCKED-EYE**

The initial shock at what lay before Margaret's door gave way to entitled anger in the blonde nurse.

"What in God's name are you doing here?" she growled, squatting down to pick the man out of the snow. She had opened her door to find Hawkeye Pierce sprawled out in the snow with no jacket on, his hair and clothes all askew, his body reeking of alcohol.

"Margaret," he mumbled, eyes opening briefly to look up at her as she threw his arm over her shoulder. "I feel like death."

"You just drank way too much—that much is clear," she muttered with concern, glancing around the compound for signs of Major Winchester. He was nowhere in sight. Presumably the film had already let out, for the compound was totally deserted.

"Ugh, I'm at Death's door," Hawkeye cried, clutching her with his free hand.

"No, you're at my door," she corrected, shaking her head. "And I am definitely not Death. What you need is a cold shower."

"No, no, not that," he murmured weakly as she yanked him up to be leaning on one knee. "Can I just—sit with you for awhile?" He squinted in an attempt to see into her tent. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"Just my sleep. Don't worry, though—heaven knows I don't need that." Her latter sentence was laced with sarcasm.

"You mean, Charles isn't here?"

"Are you kidding?" she huffed, feeling a fresh wave of righteous anger at the sight of the empty compound. "I'd have Death himself over for a nightcap before I'd let that jackass into my room."

"I knew it—this _is_ Death's door," Hawkeye muttered. Relief washed over him and he closed his eyes in utter peace.

* * *

"Hawkeye, are you alright? Come on, Hawkeye, speak to me."

Slivers of light became apparent to him as indistinct sounds registered in his ears, blurry slivers of incandescent light reflecting off of vague brown and red shapes. A blurry peachish shape entered his field of vision, hot breath on his face.

"Come on, Captain; say something." Though it seemed he was coming to, his eyes were rolling around in his head rather haphazardly. Margaret had lugged him onto her bed and was kneeling beside it now, one hand by his face to feel his breath on the back of her hand and the other holding his hand.

How had tonight turned out so differently than she'd imagined? First there was the session with Charles, which went surprisingly smoothly but was then followed by his humiliating if not intentional rejection of her innermost desires. And just when she'd thought she could hole herself up in her bed and have a good cry over it, a very drunk Hawkeye had taken the occasion to collapse at her door and black out.

"Ugh," he moaned, his voice thick and nasally. He blinked several times, his pupils snapping back into formation.

"Hawkeye?"

His gaze floated above her head for awhile, dropping with the speed of a falling leaf until his eyes locked on hers.

"Margaret?" he murmured. He turned his head to look around the room. "Where am I?"

"Don't you recognize where you are?"

The red chintz curtains came into focus, the crudely tacked up wood paneling.

"Crabapple Cove," he muttered, a smile forming on his face as his eyes shut halfway. "I'm home."

"No, you're in my tent. Major Houlihan's tent."

His eyes opened one at a time, eyelids heavy. She released her hold on his hand.

"But aren't _you_ Major Houlihan?"

"Don't play that game with me. You know damn well who I am. Are you okay to stand? You need to go sleep this off."

"Margaret—did you say I'm in your tent?"

"Yes, and right now you're on my bed."

"Well, why did you correct me?" he snapped, surprisingly lucid. "I _am_ home."

"Can't you lay off the jokes for once?" she remarked with a sigh. "You blacked out, Hawkeye. You're probably going to be really sick from this, if you haven't been already."

"Been there, done that—several times," he muttered, slowly lifting his hand towards his head and fanning his mouth. "Speaking of which, you got any mints?"

She reached into a box on the floor and pulled out a handful of starlight mints, handing them to Hawkeye, who did need them quite badly. She watched him as he unwrapped three of the mints and popped them into his mouth.

"Thank you," he muttered. "I was about to pour sodium bicarbonate down my throat just to soak up the smell."

"You have to sit up now. I have to get to sleep at some point and you definitely need all the rest you can get. What did you drink anyway?"

"Ugh, don't remind me," he muttered. "Charles didn't even have to be around to exact his revenge on me."

She blanched at the remark.

"What are you talking about?"

He attempted a shrug.

"Don't be surprised if everyone in the M.A.S.H. is hungover tomorrow. You should probably start preheating the coffee beans now, because you and Major Winchester are going to be busy."

"No, what did you mean about Charles getting revenge on you?"

"I know he sponsored the film showing. I just can't figure out why." He turned to look at her, his dark blue eyes locking on her light blue ones. "Do you know why?"

She feigned irritation.

"Of course not. Maybe he just wanted to mope around his tent listening to his phonograph. You know how boring he can be."

"Do I ever!" Hawkeye replied, his face brightening. "If he was a termite, he'd be absolutely terrifying."

Margaret could only scoff and roll her eyes.

"I can see the alcohol did nothing to dampen your sense of humor."

"Are you sure? Because I think it dampened everything else." He lifted up his arm, showing her his wet sleeve.

"That's not the alcohol, Captain, that's the snow. I found you lying in the snow outside my door."

"How did I end up there? Wait—I remember: I fell..."

"That's what I assume happened."

"…in love."

"Ha!" she deadpanned. "With who?"

He looked at her matter-of-factly, his elbow now supporting his upper body as he stared steadily into her eyes.

"You."

She looked into the dark blue eyes of Hawkeye Pierce, his mouth no longer grinning. She was utterly unnerved by his sudden confession and didn't hide her shock.

"Please, Hawkeye. Enough with the joking already."

"No, Margaret. I'm not—I'm not joking. That's how I feel about you—ever since…."

His voice trailed off. A faint smile appeared on her lips. Finally he was coming around!

"Ever since when?" she asked. "That fateful trip to the 8063rd?"

He shook his head adamantly.

"No, it was… after that. Frankly, that whole trip scared the crap out of me and it wasn't because of the shelling or the explosions."

Her jaw dropped. Perhaps the alcohol was working too well; she wasn't in the mood to be hurt twice in one evening and yet intimate secrets were pouring out of Hawkeye's mouth along with their accompanying backstories. Why couldn't he have just answered her question with a simple _yes_, even if it wasn't true?

"When then?"

"Does it really matter, Margaret? All that matters is that you know now—or would that be now know?"

"Either works."

"Right," he replied, quickly nodding his head. "Well, that and I'm too drunk to stop myself from spilling my guts—literally and figuratively."

"Just don't _literally_ do it in here," she muttered, glancing around her room for a bucket, just in case. Hawkeye took the moment of silence to speak again, his face lit up with a big toothy grin.

"Remember when I flicked that spoonful of oatmeal into your hair and you didn't get mad? I wanted to kiss that smile right off your face."

"Is that right?" she murmured, feeling herself blushing. Hawkeye's visit was beginning to look like a pick-me-up for her bruised ego. She'd carried a torch for him all this time and only now was he revealing the torch he carried for her. They'd make it work this time: this much she knew. She was not letting Hawkeye Pierce get away this time—not that he would want to, anyway. Besides, he'd confessed his love to her!

Her heart leapt as he spoke again, the same love-struck look in his eyes.

"And those patients that you nurse back to health—even if they get an arm blown off, _they're_ the lucky ones."

"Why do you say that?" She cocked an eyebrow, anticipating his explanation.

"They get your full undivided attention, your encouragement—hell, they even get your sponge baths. Remember that Italian soldier—De Simone, right?—well, I can understand why he fell in love with you, Margaret. He's a braver man than I—I need to be crocked to even say all this aloud."

"Ha, I can't believe you remember Ignazio," she murmured, completely unable to stop smiling.

"See? You even remember them by name. Some of them probably believe that they've died when they first see you, an angel in green."

"Ignazio is the exception, Hawkeye, not the rule. Most of the time I don't remember—"

"Forget about the patients then. I find myself being insanely jealous of men who got to touch you—Donald, Ferret Face, even that congressional aide you had to kiss for the blackmail picture. Hell, I even found myself wanting to beat the stuffing out of Little Mac for getting to lay on top of you."

Now she was grinning unabashedly, her teeth on display.

"I got to do that on my own," she replied, in regards to Little Mac. "There were pieces of that dummy all over the compound! Poor Captain Hill…."

"Right," he muttered, bitterness in his voice. "The hero helicopter pilot. No offense, but I'm actually kinda glad Charles embarrassed you in front of him with that lemon meringue pie. Otherwise, he probably would have hit on you and won you over with his—"

"Alright, alright," she murmured, interrupting him. "So why are you telling me all this now?"

"Oh—right," he started, reaching a hand up to rub the back of his neck. "Why now…"

"Why didn't you tell me before?" she began. "We could've been together for a—"

"Well," he interrupted, ignoring her latest comment, "ever since your father died, you've been around a lot less and around someone else a lot more. I just—I felt ashamed that you had to go to _him_ for comfort, as if I couldn't fit the bill. What does Major Ego have that I don't?"

"You really are drunk; you know that?" she said with a chuckle. "Admitting you're jealous of him—I never thought I'd see the day."

"Jealousy schmelousy. It's just this, Margaret: it's like you found yourself back in the States, only to choose Mess Tent food over a nice juicy Angus steak. I'm just confused, is all."

"Are you saying Charles is Mess Tent food?"

"One and the same. Haven't you noticed his head is roughly the shape of the cement potatoes they serve on weekends? They even have the same smattering of hair."

"You make me laugh, Hawkeye," she said, grinning toothily. "I forgot how much I enjoy hearing your—"

"Winchester isn't your type," he cut in. "Especially in a romantic sense. A vixen like you needs a fox—and he's no fox. He's more like a woodchuck. Maybe his first name is a shortened form of his true persona."

"Ha, Woodchuck Winchester," she laughed. "I didn't realize how funny you are when you're smashed."

"Well, it's not every day I can get smashed at a M.A.S.H.. And to think, I have Charles's generous spirit to thank for how I am tonight. But really though, Margaret, you and Major Ego, of all people? No amount of desperation should lead you to him."

"Don't worry about that, Hawkeye," she said, running her hand over the graying strands of hair on his forehead. "Major Winchester is definitely not my type."

"Really?" he inquired, obvious surprise in his eyes. He had confessed quite a lot just now—had it all been for naught? He narrowed his eyes, intrigued by her answer. "So are you saying you're not with him?"

"Me, with that judgmental snob?" She waved her hand dismissively. "Don't make me laugh."

"Ahh," Hawkeye said with a sigh, "what a relief." He shook his head, smiling as if disappointed in himself. "Man, I was getting jealous of Charles for nothing—as opposed to my usual envy of his vast riches and influence."

Margaret wanted so badly to blurt out her own confessions of interest, but that had horrified him when she'd tried it last. Every time she had tried to say something along those lines tonight, he'd interrupted her or talked right over her. To avoid being interrupted again, she remained quiet, biting her tongue as she took in the sight of Hawkeye as he lie on her bed. Now that it was confirmed that Margaret and Charles were not an item, Hawkeye didn't have to be mushy and sentimental; he could just get down to business. After all, there was a new kind of vulnerability to her now, a vulnerability that had at the very least made her overly violent with Winchester and overly sympathetic to him.

"If you _are_ feeling desperate, Margaret, know that I'm in the same boat. No need to woe, woe, woe your boat gently down the stream all alone. I know a way to kill at least two woes with one paddle."

He'd used the word _desperate_—that was not the kind of word she wanted associated with the beginnings of a relationship.

"How so?" she asked, leaning on the mattress, having folded her arms in front of her. He raised his eyebrows, smile growing even larger.

"It involves only three things: a lack of clothing, a bit of adventure and a lot of free time. I would have also included the supply room, but your place is much cozier. So how 'bout it, Margaret? Why don't you and I finish what we started—and make each other the happiest officers in the 4077th?"

Compared to Charles, the way Hawkeye worded things was utterly crude. She rolled her eyes. So he'd gone directly from sweet mushy talk to propositions for sex, all without hearing her end of it. It irritated her but she hid it as she replied.

"What are you saying—"

"Not to wax all religious on you, but why don't we get to know each other in the biblical sense and see where it goes from there? This could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

Hawkeye's crass way with words was almost stomach-turning. Why had he suddenly laid off the sweet talk? It was certainly having a positive effect on her while he'd been doing it. Had he gone any longer with his little confessions of love, she would have blurted some of her own. Before she could reply, however, Hawkeye became fixated on something in the room.

"Is that a bottle of wine over there?" he asked, indicating the Montrechet Charles had inadvertently left behind.

"It is," she replied. "I don't think you should be drinking anymore—"

"No, it's not that," he remarked. "That's Winchester's wine. What's that doing in here?"

* * *

Margaret held her breath, staring over at the bottle. Her mind went blank. Before she could reply, Hawkeye interrupted her thoughts.

"Wait, is that why you digging through his stuff today?"

"Yes, exactly," she remarked, glad he'd made an excuse for her.

"It figures, the one time it's possible to sample Charles's vintage wine, I'm all puked out."

"It's okay. Maybe some other time." At that, she looked at Hawkeye, who was mulling it over in his head, not completely satisfied with her response.

"Then what's that?" he said, pointing to something near the door. She scanned the area, seeing Charles's gold oak leaf pin on the ground, having fallen out of his trousers when they'd hit the ground.

"What does it look like?" she retorted. "It's a major's pin—and I happen to be a major."

"Is it yours?" he muttered.

"Why wouldn't it be?" she replied, very much disliking the direction of this conversation. Just then Hawkeye reached over and snatched her jacket from its hanger by the head of the bed. He turned over the garment to show the ever-present gold oak leaf and gold caduceus on her lapels. She blanched at the sight. How in the world was she going to explain that? She'd figured that once she's revealed her lack of involvement with Charles, she'd almost reeled Hawkeye in to her. Now that Charles was inadvertently back in the picture, she feared she'd lose any progress she'd made with Hawkeye tonight.

In those assumptions about Hawkeye's M.O., Margaret Houlihan couldn't be more wrong.

* * *

**A/N: What did you think of the Hawkeye/Margaret exchange? Please provide me with some feedback! Like it? Hate it? Does it seem realistic? I know that some of you have been waiting for a long time for this and the H/M stuff is just beginning. I want to post the next chapter quickly but I'd really like your honest feedback on this one before I post. The next chapter weighs heavily on this one and if some parts of this chapter were screwy/OOC/bad, I want to rectify them and have that reflected in the next chapter. **


	20. The Joke's On You

**CHAPTER 20 – THE JOKE'S ON YOU**

"Major Winchester was here, wasn't he?" Hawkeye muttered, looking mildly disgusted as he fixed his gaze on the lapels of Margaret's jacket. "And I'm going to guess that that loss of label isn't from his most recent outing with the Uijeongbu Polar Bear Club."

"What are you talking about?" she hissed. "And what the hell is a Polar Bear Club?"

"He's been less than dressed lately, and well, running out in the snow with very little on is something a Polar Bear Club member would do. Please tell me he hasn't seen _you_ bare."

"Not that it's any of your business, but no."

He sighed loudly, relief written all over his face. Even so, the nature of their relationship still wasn't completely clear. Just because Winchester hadn't seen Margaret naked yet didn't mean they weren't together in some sense.

Margaret wasn't happy with the prying tone of the conversation. A change of subject was in order.

"I called my sister today."

"Oh, is that right," he muttered, stroking his chin. He flashed her a sneaky smile. "Wait—is she going to join us for our Bible study?"

"No, you dunderhead, I called her about the funeral arrangements."

He swallowed loudly.

"What?"

"She's stationed in Tokyo right now with her husband. She couldn't wire me because she's been on the road for the last month, but she _did_ take the time to make all the funeral arrangements for my father. Figures—I'm completely left out of the loop. I just feel so unneeded, you know? Life and death go on without me."

"_I_ need you, Margaret," Hawkeye automatically responded, briefly glancing down at the lonely oak leaf pin on the ground. She rolled her eyes, having expected the comment.

"I'm serious, Hawkeye. My sister obviously didn't feel the need to contact me about my father's death; instead, I get some generic letter from the U.S. Army. You can't imagine how lousy that feels."

"What are you talking about?" Pierce retorted. "Who needs _me_, can you tell me that? My dad is healthy and happily continuing his work in the Crabapple Cove clinic and I have no one who depends on me. At least Radar can claim his mother depends on him, and B.J. can claim Peg and Erin. Even that sleaze Rizzo's got a wife and kid needing him. I got nobody."

"Which also means you have no responsibilities: it's the perfect life for someone like you. You couldn't handle the responsibilities of a wife and children."

He looked affronted and hurt at the same time.

"How can you say that? I stitch up and ship out dozens of wounded men in a week. Those men owe me their lives, not that I care about that. I have a big responsibility here."

"That's not your family in there, Pierce. You didn't grow up with those boys in there—they didn't teach you how to bowl or allow you to stay in their bedroom during a thunderstorm."

"Yeah," Pierce responded. "If I so much as tried to do that last thing, they'd press charges, and not in the lightning sense."

"Ugh. Again you joke! What I'm saying is even if they live, you're never going to see them again anyway, whereas I expected to see Dad after the war…." With that, she scrunched her cheeks, eyes welling up with tears. "Oh… Daddy…."

"Margaret," Hawkeye murmured, alarmed at the sight of Major Houlihan breaking down in front of him. He turned his body around in the bed and leaned towards her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

"He's gone, Hawkeye. I'll never see him again," she cried, burying her face in the crook of his arm. Several moments of uncomfortable silence passed between them. She felt him shrug against her.

"There's always the funeral."

With that comment, she lifted her head and glared at him with narrowed eyes.

"I mean, _alive_, Hawkeye. Ugh, must you always joke?"

"I'm not joking," he insisted, pulling her towards him again as if by instinct. "Seeing him one last time may give you a sense of closure."

"It's just—I wanted him to see me get married to a worthy man. I wanted him to play with his grandchildren, see me earn the rank of Lieutenant Colonel." Her voice was cut off by a sob. "I just wanted…."

"Shhh… It's okay, Margaret," Pierce murmured soothingly, rubbing her back with a hand.

"Hawkeye, I know you don't want to hear any of this—you're probably half sick to your stomach already from the booze, let alone—"

"I don't think there's anything left in my stomach to be sick over," he replied truthfully.

"You probably want to go sleep the alcohol off," she murmured, her voice muffled by his shirt. "I don't blame you if you want to go."

"Nah," he replied. "I'm here for you, Margaret, just like I said I would be." His own words made him uncomfortable, and he fidgeted. Breakdowns were common out here; shortly after Radar left, B.J. had been reduced to tears at the knowledge that his daughter had called Radar 'daddy' at the airport in San Francisco. Holding Margaret like this felt different than it had with B.J. This was dangerous territory, comforting her like this. He'd not forgotten the thrill of kissing her in that abandoned hut more than a year ago. It wouldn't be difficult for him to pick up where they'd left off.

"I'm glad for that," she replied, hugging him tightly to her tear-streaked face. The last time they'd embraced in a time of great strife, they'd ended up doing much more. True, Hawkeye Pierce was a cad, but he told himself that he would not let himself take advantage of her vulnerability again.

It was then that it struck him: mere minutes ago he had been hitting on her brazenly, essentially inviting her for a romp in bed and she'd pulled away; now that she was responding to his touch, allowing herself to be vulnerable in front of him and opening herself up to him, he found himself pulling away. What was wrong with him?

"When's the funeral?" Hawkeye blurted.

Margaret sighed with exasperation and frustration.

"The day after tomorrow."

"That means you probably don't have enough time to get there. I'm sorry, Margaret."

"No, it's in Tokyo," she replied. "It's where he'll be buried as well. My sister Nancy arranged it all."

A look of confusion came across his face.

"You're kidding. They're not going to ship him back to the States?"

"Nope. I feel the same way you do about it," she responded, pointing at him for emphasis. "And so this afternoon I told my sister we shouldn't bury him in Japan, that we should bury him at home. And then she asked me where home was. I couldn't answer her."

"I can see that it'd be hard to respond to that…" he began haltingly, searching for the right words to say.

She broke down again, her body racked with sobs. Never had Pierce expected he'd be comforting a sobbing Margaret, and yet, here he was.

"No, it's not because of that," she replied, sniffling. "My whole life growing up, we never lived in one place for more than six months or so. Dad was always being stationed at a different base. I don't have a home."

"Of course you do—"

"Where?" she blurted. "Here, in this hellhole? In this drafty tent with these stupid red curtains? The place where my suitcases rest?"

Hawkeye was quick to reply.

"I don't have a home right now either," he muttered sullenly. "When the war is over, I've thought about moving back in with my dad, but is that really something grownups do?"

"I don't know," she replied truthfully, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. Pierce pressed further.

"I mean, would you have moved back in with your father after the—"

"No," she replied. At her answer, he gave her a knowing look. She sighed and shook her head before speaking.

"It's just—I know you think my dad's not the warmest person, and that may be true; most of the time I felt unworthy around him. But now that he's gone, I can't remember anything but the good times, the times when I felt so lucky, so proud to be his daughter. He was such a…" she dabbed her eyes on his shirt. "…such a good man."

"He's lucky to have you as a daughter," Hawkeye murmured into her blonde hair. "You're a good woman, Margaret. You have to give yourself more credit."

She waved her hand dismissively, a brief flicker of a smile on her face. All the while tears continued to spill from her eyes.

"You're just saying that."

"No I'm not. I meant every word."

It was then that she lifted her head up to look at Hawkeye, her forehead on the same level as his mouth. His mouth was a thin tight line underneath concerned blue eyes, all visible signs of intoxication now gone, thanks to the peppermints and the nature of their conversation. Her eyes, glassy with tears, locked onto his.

"Hawkeye, I—"

"Margaret, don't say it," he blurted. His own eyes went wide at his impromptu request. She narrowed her eyes at him, utterly confused.

"Don't say _what_?"

He began stammering, opening and closing his mouth wordlessly.

"I—uh—well, I…"

Now he was backpedaling. His very reason for going to her tent tonight was to steal her back from Charles; now that Charles was almost completely ruled out as an adversary, there was no one to steal her from. Where was the challenge in having a free, single woman in emotional turmoil confess her love to him? One of the major reasons he wanted Major Houlihan so badly was because she was particularly evasive, generally resistant to his charms, always giving him something to strive for—a smile, a touch of the hand, a playful retort. The thrill of the hunt was gone for Hawkeye at the moment; Margaret was a wounded duck ready to quack and he was a Labrador retriever with his nose on the bird.

As Pierce looked around the room frantically for a way to change the subject, he saw the wine bottle again. Could he ask a question about it? It wasn't distracting enough.

"Don't say… that I'm lying," he stated carefully. "It's true, what I said."

Her eyes narrowed at him.

"You do realize I'm not drunk, don't you?" she fumed, pulling away from him completely. At her action, he was overwhelmed with conflicting feelings of guilt and desire. His pent-up feelings for her were too strong and his being fall-down drunk didn't help him conceal them. She continued speaking in an irritated murmur, once again evading his charms in true Margaret Houlihan fashion, shaking her finger at him all the while. "I know what you were thinking and believe me, there's no way I'll ever—"

Suddenly Hawkeye's hand was in Margaret's hair and his mouth was against hers. A sound of surprise escaped her lips at the unexpected contact. The kiss had happened so quickly he hadn't even realized what he'd done. But there he was, kissing Margaret in her tent, without her pulling away. Their lips united, tentatively opening and then closing as they deepened the kiss.

It felt so good, his lips against her full lips, the warmth of her face lingering near his, their noses almost touching. He could have sworn he heard a quiet moan from Margaret's throat, and he reached up, cupping his hand around the back of her head and eliciting another moan from her.

He closed his eyes—this was wrong! He gathered that this wasn't even for the sake of rescuing her from a most imprudent relationship with Charles; it was that he was too inebriated to control his feelings or actions, and her vulnerability right now only fed his fire. He shouldn't kiss her in such a situation! The last time this had occurred she'd been frightened, and this time she was grieving.

He felt a chill up his spine as Margaret's hand cradled the back of his neck with surprising need. It was unfortunate that she became far too attached when strong feelings were involved in the initiation of romance, and he was immediately disturbed at the thought of history repeating itself. His current state of intoxication made it very probable that he wouldn't be able to hold back his own romantic confessions as he had before. No, this wouldn't work at all. He had an aloof, mysterious reputation to uphold—it kept the nurses curious about him. Once he'd spilled his guts there'd be nothing left of him to uncover. And Margaret, more than any of them, had to be kept wanting more.

Hawkeye allowed for the kiss to continue for a minute more and then forced himself to pull away, clearing his throat as he did so. Warily he opened his eyes to find her staring at him with confusion and hurt. She'd clearly not wanted the kiss to end. Again Hawkeye was rejecting her! How had he fooled her twice?

"Hawkeye, why did you—"

"Margaret," he interrupted, his voice cracking. "We shouldn't do this right now. You're grieving and I can't take advantage of you like this."

"What are you talking about?" she spat, waving dismissively.

"I just think that you and I—being together right now—wouldn't be right. You're not in your right mind."

"I'm not in my right mind?" she shrieked. "My, _you're_ quite the charmer, aren't you? What are you going to tell me next, that you were just kidding with all you said earlier?" Instinctively she squinted, waiting for the next bombshell.

"Margaret, you see how drunk I am," he replied. "I've been spilling out more than just secrets at the wrong time. I did mean what I said, but I shouldn't have said it while you're in the condition you're in. I couldn't let what we were doing continue while you're—"

"Ha! As if _you_ had control of the situation," she interrupted brashly. "I _let_ you pull away. When were you going to tell me about your feelings, anyway—at my funeral?"

"No, of course not," he muttered, obviously flustered. "Probably at the end of the war, when we're free to go where we want."

At that comment, Margaret threw her arms up in the air.

"This war could last eleven stinking years! Did you even consider that I'm not getting any younger?"

He looked away for a moment, back down at the gold pin on the floor. He'd really screwed this one up. Sure, the first part had gone well enough but then Margaret did just what she'd done before on that fateful night in the hut—she tossed out her current man the very instant Hawkeye had expressed interest in her, an act which effectively ended his pursuit. He wasn't the kind of man to enjoy a woman who threw herself at him, and yet, that was what Margaret was trying to do yet again. Hadn't she realized how badly her ploy had worked the last time this had happened? Why did everything have to be so complicated—why couldn't she treat him with the same detachment and aloofness that she reserved for Major Winchester?

When Hawkeye looked back up at Margaret he could see that she was in a total rage now, her eyes lit up like fire, face red from her passionate arguing. His lack of immediate verbal response to her outburst mortified her. She couldn't believe how embarrassed she felt to admit her feelings to him when he was so quick to dispel them. Finally he found his voice, though his discretion was all but dissipated in a haze of booze.

"Margaret, I'm not saying we should go and make some babies," he said with a nervous chuckle, his words cutting her like a knife. He even noticed her flinching as he spoke. At this response from Margaret, he tried to state his case more tactfully, but the damage had already been done. "I'm just saying that we should take our time before—"

"Don't flatter yourself. I can't be with you anyway," she hissed matter-of-factly, attempting to regain control of the situation. "Unlike with Donald, I refuse to be unfaithful to Charles."

* * *

**A/N: Sorry about all the angst! I find that some conflict and game-playing makes things that much more interesting! Think about the strained relationship between Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, for example! Such a relationship, though far from an ideal situation, keeps you the reader on the edge of your seat! Of course, who Margaret ends up with is still totally up in the air, even for me! I haven't fully worked what's going to happen, so your feedback is more helpful than you realize! I love feedback of all kinds! ;)**


	21. The Performance Of A Lifetime

**CHAPTER 21 – THE PERFORMANCE OF A LIFETIME**

"Well, if it isn't Daddy Warbucks," Hunnicutt remarked with a smile, upon seeing Winchester skulk into the Swamp. "So are you actually going to bunk here with the likes of us plebeians?"

"Ha," Charles scoffed, a smile playing on his lips. He glanced around the interior of the Swamp, noticing the absence of Hunnicutt's partner in crime. "In regard to your incorrect pronoun usage, where _is_ Pierce, anyway?"

"The bigger question is why the sudden overdose of hospitality, Charles? The whole M.A.S.H. unit has you to thank for their hangovers tomorrow."

Charles demurred from making any hasty comments. How was it that Hunnicutt knew about his anonymous sponsorship of the film showing? It was then that it struck him: getting Corporal Klinger involved in any covert operation was always an abject failure. He should have known what was going to happen.

"Klinger's mouth is truly as big as his nose," Winchester said with a scoff, shaking his head. "A man with more hair than wit."

"We forced the answer out of him," Hunnicutt admitted. "Can you really blame us for wanting to know who provided us with free alcohol and entertainment? And don't flatter yourself, Charles; you don't need very much wit to outnumber your hair."

"Very funny. Don't forget my providing you ungrateful cretins with popcorn," Charles added, cocking an eyebrow as he ignored Hunnicutt's last statement. "And what of Pierce? Did he not watch the film?"

"Most of it—that is, before his stomach turned on him. So, what's with you, Charles? Care to explain why you treated the whole compound? Do I hear wedding bells in the air?"

"If there were, Hunnicutt, you can be assured that the greater part of my funds would be employed to ensure my fiancée's comfort and happiness, most certainly not to benefit a horde of slovenly pigs such as yourselves."

"As much as that had to cost, I can believe that wasn't the greater part of your funds."

"And you'd be correct in that assumption. Never mind my funds, Hunnicutt; why aren't you out cold?"

"Oh, just give me a couple of minutes. I hope we don't get any incoming wounded before noon because I have a feeling I'm not going to be too peppy in the morning."

"Drinking ample water will aid you in your road to recovery," Winchester replied, eyeing the mattress as if it were his sworn enemy. He glanced over at Hunnicutt, giving him a wink. "Trust me on this one; I'm a doctor."

"So not only did you liquor us up for free but now you're giving out free advice? And that's after the fact that for most of the day at least, the O.R. was ego-free. Charles, I'm stunned."

"You needn't be stunned, Hunnicutt," Charles remarked with a big smile, standing on his side of the room with his hands in his pockets. "It was all for a greater good. Besides, if we are to receive any casualties tomorrow, you need to be useful."

Hunnicutt looked up, greatly intrigued.

"What's the greater good?"

Charles briefly shut his eyes as he chuckled to himself.

"Ha, as if I would tell you."

A silence passed between them as B.J. glanced suspiciously at Charles's odd behavior. By this point, Charles would have either begun readying himself for bed or lounged on the chair by his phonograph. He hadn't done either.

"Aren't you going to sit down, Charles?" Hunnicutt asked, gesturing at the bed.

"Ah, not quite," Charles replied, a flicker of fear in his eyes as he pictured the expression on his face when his backside made contact with the unyielding piece of furniture.

"Why not?"

"I have to use the latrine first," he muttered. "No use getting comfortable yet."

Another moment of thick silence. Charles did not so much as take one step towards the door.

"Then why aren't you going?" Hunnicutt remarked, looking up at him. "You'll probably have to wait in one hell of a line, so you might as well get a head start and go now."

"Ah, right—the drunkards," Charles murmured, rolling his eyes. He took a hesitant step towards the door. "Speaking of which, do you think Pierce is using the facilities?"

"Eh, I doubt he made it that far. He was seeing multiple copies of people at last I saw him." The mustached doctor stared into space for a moment, realizing something. "Hey, what's with the sudden interest in Hawkeye's whereabouts, anyway? That's like the twelfth time you've asked about him in five minutes."

Charles squinted with distaste.

"That's funny, because I only count three. Pierce is seeing multiple and you're _hearing_ multiple. Ha," he said, chortling at his own wit. "That gives me an idea: you and Pierce should be each other's audience. It'll be the only time you'll receive four bouts of laughter at one of your quips."

"Splendid idea, Charles, but I don't know where he went after he left the mess tent." It was then that he recalled Hawkeye covering his mouth as he staggered out of the makeshift building. "I'll bet he was making quite the mess outside the tent, though."

Winchester was slowly becoming alarmed. Had Hawkeye been spying on Margaret and him? Could Hawkeye be over there now? Winchester gave Hunnicutt a hard stare.

"Aren't you concerned about your friend? He could be lying in a snowdrift right now, too far gone to realize that he's freezing to death."

"Ah, that gives me an idea, Charles."

Winchester narrowed his eyes at the mustached surgeon, who hadn't made an effort to stand up. He replied cautiously, his voice a monotone.

"Does it now."

"While you're on your way to the latrines, keep an eye out for him. Who knows; maybe he actually made it over to Margaret's."

Suddenly Hunnicutt fell silent, his eyes wide. Though he wasn't as fall-down drunk as Hawkeye, the alcohol had lowered the blond surgeon's threshold for keeping secrets.

"And _why_ would he be doing that?" Winchester exclaimed, his face feeling hot.

"What, are you Margaret's keeper or something? She can talk to whoever she wants."

"Ah, yes, a vomiting Pierce—the quintessential conversationalist," Winchester retorted with a little sneer.

B.J. rolled his eyes.

"Aren't you going to go to the latrines? Now you're starting to make _me_ worry about him. I'm bound to end up facedown in the snow if I have to walk across the compound. I'm not much better off than he is; it'd be like the blind leading the blind."

Charles took a step towards the door, recalling an important piece of information that he wanted from the mustached surgeon.

"Perhaps I'd have more luck finding him if I knew why he wanted to talk to Major Houlihan."

"I doubt it," Hunnicutt replied. "Just listen for the sounds of a man groaning in agony. You shouldn't have any trouble finding him."

"Hunnicutt, I gave you an ego-free morning, free alcohol, and free advice. Can you not divulge that harmless tidbit of information for my sake?"

"Why does it matter, anyway? You do realize you're going to be killed tomorrow after everyone recovers from what you did tonight."

"I can lead a heathen to hooch, but I cannot make him drink," Charles stated adamantly, forcefully pointing at Hunnicutt. "I am not going to be held responsible for three dozen cases of alcohol poisoning in people who have what I assume to be at least a rudimentary knowledge of medicine."

"If you don't leave the Swamp now, Charles, it might not matter where Hawkeye is in a few hours, because he'll be frozen solid."

"Ah—the alcohol in his blood should keep it flowing well below the freezing point," Charles remarked, moving towards the door. "Even so, I will seek out our inebriated itinerant, lest he do something very stupid."

"Too late," Hunnicutt murmured, looking down and shaking his head. When he looked back up, Winchester was gone.

* * *

"Wait—what the hell are you talking about?" Hawkeye Pierce blurted at the unexpected confession from Margaret Houlihan. She and Charles were actually an item? He was shocked to the core at her admission.

"You heard me," she replied, a smile appearing on her face in response to the frown that had shown up on his.

"Are you talking about Charles _Winchester_?"

"The very one." Now she was gloating.

"But you told me—"

"I lied. And you can assume away about his pin being here."

Now Pierce was stammering again, his blue eyes wide with shock and hurt and all sorts of negative emotions. He'd hoped this evening could end with a promise of more to come… at some point. Instead, he was being summarily shut down. He couldn't believe his ears.

"I don't… I don't get it. Why would you—"

"I lied because I didn't want anyone to know just yet. Guess that little peck just pulled it right out of me."

Something occurred to Hawkeye, something that made him feel almost as nauseous as the whiskey, scotch, and martinis he'd been guzzling down all night. He looked her straight in the eye with narrowed eyes, his face dead serious. Her expression, however, was playful, sneaky and a tad arrogant.

"Is that why he paid for that film, Margaret? Was he here tonight?"

"Bingo," she replied, pointing at him and grinning toothily.

"Why did he pick such an obnoxiously loud film for us to…" He froze in mid-sentence, a groan escaping his lips as he realized the implications. When he glanced at Margaret, she was smiling broadly.

"Well, if it's true you needed plane engines to drown out your passion, why isn't he here now, comforting you in your time of need?" he asked, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Been there, did that," she replied coolly, crossing her arms.

"Then why are you still—"

"Oh, you mean I can't cry on more than one occasion for my dead father? Well, excuse me, Captain Cold," she sneered, getting to her feet. This evening with Pierce was fast drawing to a close, a failed evening as it had been with Major Winchester.

Pierce stood up as well, face-to-face with the blonde nurse.

"Well, things are just falling into place for you now, eh? You can have him meet your sister at the funeral," Pierce remarked, crossing his arms as well.

"He's not going with me to the funeral," she blurted. Hawkeye froze. Had she just said that Charles was not going to Tokyo with her? The blood slowly drained from Hawkeye's face at the admission. Why was Margaret trying so hard to confuse him? Never again would he drink so much, because it was making him stupid and incapable of following the conversation.

"What do you mean? You and loverboy should be there together," he remarked, his voice scathing. "After all, who better to comfort you than a man with _both_ his parents alive and well in their mansion firmly_ rooted_ in Boston? That's right—you can really relate to him."

"He can't go," she lied, biting back the harsh words that would usually follow such a sarcastic quip. "He's on call."

"You could get him off duty if you wanted. I'm sure Colonel Potter would und—"

"I'm not taking our best surgeon away when there's a very real possibility that we could get more wounded tomorrow."

"Best surgeon?" Hawkeye blurted, hurt by the remark. "Have you forgotten who just so happens to be chief surgeon of the 4077th?"

"Ha! That was decided well before Charles arrived here," she flatly retorted. "And he's a far better surgeon than Frank ever was. That title probably would've been given to Major Winchester if he'd been your rival then."

"Oh, is that what you think?" he replied back, his voice strong but his expression full of insecurity. It irked him that what she had said was almost certainly true. Charles was a highly skilled surgeon, well-deserving of the title of chief surgeon.

"Yes, and I know you think so too," she spat. "You're just lucky you got to the 4077th first."

A moment of tense silence passed between Margaret and Hawkeye. She straightened out her satiny nightshirt and then crossed her arms, awaiting the next sarcastic statement from the dark-haired surgeon.

"So you're going to the funeral alone," he said, looking at her warily. "Is that what you wanna do?"

"Not really," she muttered, her gaze directed elsewhere. Once Hawkeye said something else hurtful, he would be kicked out of her tent. She glanced up at him to see his brow etched in thought as he stared down at the ground. He'd decided: he wasn't about to let this lie.

"Well, if you need someone to go with you, I could—"

"Alright," she replied automatically. "We'll be leaving early tomorrow evening. I have to talk to the colonel first and then I'll come get you. We'll be driving to Seoul and catching a plane there to Tokyo."

Hawkeye looked taken aback, clearly shocked by her immediate reply.

"Wait—did you just say I could go with you?"

"Don't get too excited," she retorted. "I'm not inviting you to a _party_, Captain, I'm inviting you to a funeral. All I ask is that you bring your dress uniform," she instructed. "My father deserves total respect."

Predictably, Hawkeye sighed; he hated wearing that dreaded uniform. He pulled himself up so that his head was leaning on her wall.

"Margaret, I really doubt he'd notice if I'm—"

He was met with the fiery eyes of Major Houlihan.

"I agree," he muttered, nodding fervently. "Total respect. Now, you, on the other hand, don't need to wear anything…"

She frowned at him. His cheesy smile melted away.

"…that doesn't command complete respect. You know, being the daughter of such a man."

* * *

The knock at the door made Hawkeye and Margaret jump. Who the hell could that be at this hour of the night? The blonde nurse sighed and walked to the door, completely ignorant of who to expect.

"Who is it?" she called, her door still shut.

"It's Charles," the voice replied. "May I come in?" Hawkeye hit himself in the forehead, rolling his eyes dramatically. So it was true; Winchester and Houlihan were an item. Otherwise, Margaret would never be okay with a man knocking on her door at this hour. Margaret, on the other hand, froze. She didn't want to have to prove that she was with Charles, and yet here he was, on the other side of the door. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

"What do you want?" she spat. From somewhere behind her, she heard some snarky laughter from Hawkeye. That certainly hadn't been the right way to convince Hawkeye of her supposed relationship with Major Winchester. She had to be kind and sweet to the blue-blooded man. It would certainly be a different dynamic than how she'd been treating him.

"May I come in?" Charles asked again, his voice ever so polite.

Margaret warily glanced back at Hawkeye, acutely aware that she was now sweating profusely.

"Let your boyfriend in," the dark-haired man muttered lowly. "Like the saying goes, three's company, two's a crowd."

"You've got it backward," Margaret replied in a harsh whisper.

"Do I? Well, I'll have you know that blue blood freezes faster than regular blood. Let Loverboy in before we have to thaw him out."

She turned to face the door, rolling her eyes. Damn. There was no getting around this. She had to make it convincing and yet, at last she spoke with Charles, she hadn't been too happy with him. This would be the performance of a lifetime.

Her frantic thoughts were interrupted by Charles speaking again through the door, his tone noticeably less polite. "Is Pierce there with you?"

Without saying another word, Margaret opened the door, revealing Hawkeye and her standing in the center of her tent. Winchester's jaw nearly dropped to the ground at the sight. The woman was truly insatiable, inviting two men into her room in one night. He very much wanted to punch Pierce, but at the strange unhappy way Pierce was looking at him, he figured Margaret had already done the job or something much like it.

"Ha," Charles deadpanned, standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets. "I should have known Pierce would stagger his way over here and—"

"Don't worry about it, darling," Margaret replied, boldly striding right up to him. He lifted his head up, utterly lost, as she approached him, stopping when she was nearly flush against his body.

"Margaret," Winchester began, glancing at the unopened bottle of Montrechet by her nightstand and then looking at her with puzzlement. "Did you have something to—"

"He was just leaving," she interrupted, glaring briefly over her shoulder at Hawkeye. Suddenly she remembered. She looked down, picking something off of the floor. "Here's your pin," she said, holding out the gold leaf to him.

Charles stared at the item with confusion for a moment, sticking his hand in his pocket and fiddling around with the single pin in his pocket. Once he realized his oak leaf pin was indeed missing, he removed his hand from his pocket and picked the item out of her hand.

"'_Kyu_," he said quietly as he dropped the pin in his pocket, glancing briefly over at Hawkeye to see the dark-haired doctor's flabbergasted stare. Apparently he wasn't the only one who was confused at this situation. Pierce seemed to be confounded by the idea of Margaret hitting on him; and needless to say, he was as well, especially since their parting this evening hadn't been romantic in any sense of the word.

Margaret had instructed Pierce not to say a word of their trip to the funeral to Charles unless he wanted to be left behind. She'd argued that as dire as the circumstances were surrounding their trip to Tokyo, it was, after all, a brief escape from Korea. And God help him, he needed the escape. Of course, he also wanted to watch Winchester's face turn purple at his triumphant return from the funeral with the major's girl in tow. A clandestine affair was always worse to hear about than one known about from the start. Margaret was right; he would not utter a word of it.

"I'm not certain what's going on here," Charles said with teeth gritted together, glancing down at her bemusedly and then over at Pierce. "Care to fill me in, Margaret? What were you and _Crocked-eye_ talking about?"

Margaret fought the urge to roll her eyes. Why hadn't Charles moved out of the way so that Hawkeye could squeeze through? The blue-blooded surgeon's sizable frame took up the entirety of the doorway, preventing Pierce from escaping. Now she'd have to keep up the façade of a legitimate relationship before Charles could inadvertently divulge too much. Besides, Hawkeye wouldn't believe her to be in a half-hearted romantic relationship. She knew that she was always one to fall hard, and she couldn't play this one any different if Hawkeye was to believe her. There was also the fact that Winchester had returned to her tent for some yet unknown reason, perhaps to apologize for his laughing away her request. If this was true, he would be redeemed in her eyes. She felt overcome with a strong urge, and went along with it.

"Us," she replied smilingly. As Winchester stared at her incredulously, his mouth slightly ajar with utter confusion, she stood up on tiptoe, putting her hands on his face and drawing him in for a passionate kiss. At the touch of her lips on his, Winchester's legs nearly gave out from under him, her mouth stifling his cry of surprise as his eyes widened in protest. He immediately quelled his knee-jerk reaction to the sudden kiss and instead closed his eyes and kissed her right back. What in the world was going on here? He dared not open his eyes, lest the moment be destroyed by the view of Pierce in his peripheral vision. As Margaret deepened the kiss, her hands tenderly caressing the cheeks that she'd earlier slapped in front of Pierce and Hunnicutt, Winchester took in a breath and held it. Surely Pierce was standing right there watching all this, but if Hot Lips Houlihan was going to kiss him with such passion, he would not refuse it, spectators be damned.

As the pair continued to kiss most ardently, Hawkeye watched with narrowed eyes Major Winchester taking his hands out of his pockets and wrapping them snugly around the blonde nurse, his large hands further pulling her body against his. He felt ill at having to watch such a scene. Majors Ego and Hot Lips, fooling around? He'd sooner believe that the Korean War had been fabricated. Yet there Margaret was, before his very eyes, voluntarily kissing the arrogant surgeon and him responding in kind.

"Get a room, you two," Hawkeye finally remarked, his patience worn thin. He noticed that Winchester hadn't ruined his kiss with Margaret as he had only a half hour or so earlier. In fact, the pair was still going at it quite enthusiastically.

"Ugh, spare me my eyes, will ya?" Hawkeye muttered, blocked from leaving the room by the kissing couple's collective bodies. "If I was gonna pay to watch such a show, rest assured you'd not be in it, Winchester. First off, you take up too much of the screen."

It was then, as Pierce watched Winchester's hands clutching at the clingy fabric at Margaret's back, his fingers moving hungrily over her satin-covered skin, that he nearly became physically ill. Imagining anyone kissing Charles Emerson Winchester III was nauseating in and of itself, let alone when the kissing partner was his old fling Margaret Houlihan.

"If this is my punishment for drinking too much, I promise to be a teetotaler from now on," Pierce remarked, shifting back and forth uncomfortably. "So do you want me to throw up on your bed or what, Margaret? Moan once for _yes_."

This remark of Pierce's was enough to get her to break the kiss with Major Winchester. She slowly pulled away from the kiss, turning to face the dark-haired doctor, her cheeks rosy and lips swollen as she glared at him. To Hawkeye she was breathtakingly beautiful but he hid his awe, replacing it with the disgust he felt at having just watched that act.

Winchester could only stand frozen in place, arms hanging loosely at his sides, his face feeling hot and lips in very much the same condition as Margaret's. After she'd pulled away from the kiss, he merely stood silently where he was, staring dumbly at the back of her head as she confronted Pierce.

"You can go now," she said to Pierce, taking a step to the side. Thankfully Winchester copied this movement, clearing a path to the outside.

"You don't have to ask me twice," Hawkeye remarked with disgust, his eyes locked on Margaret as he slowly stalked past the silent pair onto the snowy compound. Once outside, he turned to them, shoving his hands in his jacket. "You kids have fun. Remember, Margaret, he needs to be changed at 1 am and 4 am. Don't forget or you'll be smelling it later."

"Ha ha," Winchester called after him, a disdainful grin on his face. "Couldn't smell any worse than you, Puke-eye."

If Pierce could emit steam from his ears, now would have been the time he'd have done so. Oh, he'd make sure Charles never lived this little incident down—no, Charles couldn't claim to be a gentleman anymore. Even he, Hawkeye Pierce, used a little discretion—a coat hanger on the supply room door ensuring there'd be a nice solid wall between him and any spectators before he'd even _begin_ his dates.

Winchester turned around to face the entrance to Margaret's tent, watching Hawkeye stomp off into the snow in the direction of the Swamp. A triumphant little smile appeared on his lips at the sight of the dark-haired doctor retreating dejectedly.

As Hawkeye Pierce retreated into the night, Margaret could only stare at the back of Charles Winchester, not because he was in her line of sight but because he had intrigued her yet again. So Major Winchester was more than willing to do something normally dishonorable for him if initially led into it. Once she'd initiated the kiss, he would never have ended it, save to breathe. However, if she had asked him to initiate a kiss in front of Pierce, it was guaranteed that he'd refuse to do so. This highborn man in front of her had at least partially redeemed his earlier laughing-off of her request. For a moment she felt guilty that she'd agreed to attend the funeral in Tokyo with Hawkeye, but in doing so, she'd be effectively screwing with Winchester's sense of entitlement and perhaps he'd feel the need to confront her about it. She was in effect pitting Hawkeye and Charles against each other, but really, that was no different than usual.


	22. Green With More Than Just Envy

**CHAPTER 22 – GREEN WITH MORE THAN JUST ENVY**

Once Hawkeye was well out of earshot, Charles felt a tug on his elbow. He turned around immediately to face Margaret, who no longer looked amorous. Words miraculously came to him as she pushed the door shut behind him.

"Margaret, may I ask what that was all—"

She lifted a finger to his lips, effectively silencing him. The control she was able to exert over this man was empowering, at the very least.

"Why did you come here?" she asked him. A loaded question.

"Why, you say?" he began, stammering as he adjusted the collar on his jacket. "All I know is that I received far more than I expected to."

"And what did you expect to receive?"

"Certainly not the realization that Pierce would be made aware of our…" At this he paused, unable to think of an appropriate word. "…of our…"

"Relationship," she blurted. At her matter-of-fact response, Winchester stammered for a moment.

"As in, romantic relationship?"

"What do you think I meant?" she retorted. "Of course that's what I'm talking about."

"I wasn't aware that our carryings on could be construed as a _romantic relationship,_ per se…"

She crossed her arms.

"Why not?"

"Namely because it was only yesterday morning that befell your fateful pair of slaps. We Winchesters define a romantic relationship in its loosest terms as a year or more of uninterrupted courtship."

"Well, that's not how the rest of the world sees it, including me."

"Margaret, did you not make it abundantly clear to me that you did not wish for anyone on the compound—and most _especially,_ one Benjamin Franklin Pierce—to be aware of our dalliances?"

"I did, but then I changed my mind," she said with a shrug. "People were going to find out sooner or later, especially meddlers like Hawkeye."

He stared at her for a moment, considering what she'd said. Less than two hours ago Margaret had unceremoniously kicked him out of her tent and now she was accosting him at the door and proclaiming a new relationship status.

"I'm not sure what to think," he stated carefully.

"What's there to think about?" she replied with a shrug. "This is the natural order of things."

"Ah, yes," he began, a ghost of a smile on his face as he counted on his fingers, "first slapping, then rebuking, followed by corporal punishment, and finally a sound reproach, all which collectively lead quite naturally into a romantic relationship."

"Funny, I didn't hear you complaining during the kiss."

"Fine, fine," he muttered, holding his hands palm up in surrender. "I get your point."

"So what do you think?"

He was taken aback.

"What do I think of what?"

She gave him a teasing glare.

"Right," he murmured. "Yes—we are in a relationship. And now I must steel myself for Pierce's unabashed resentment of me. But never fear, Margaret; it'll be a mere order of magnitude above his current level of resentment."

* * *

"Well, now that we know where we stand," Margaret began, "did you think about what I said?" She vowed that if Charles had indeed arrived to apologize or to refute his earlier behavior towards the end of their conversation, that he would be systematically forgiven and the funeral date with Hawkeye would be dead in the water. His response to her would determine if she'd acted too hastily with Hawkeye in securing a companion for the sad trip to Tokyo.

"Could you remind me of what that is?" he ventured.

"I think you know," she murmured, taking a step towards him, an aura of seduction around her as she licked her lips. He nearly choked on his own tongue.

"I do not," he stammered, straightening his back as she stood flush against him, his back perfectly vertical.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I'd heard that Pierce was headed this way, so—"

"So you came over here for Hawkeye," she muttered, taking a step away from him, disappointment on her face. She immediately felt embarrassed by the spontaneous kiss. "You had nothing to say to me."

"That's not true, Margaret," he replied quickly. "I was going—"

"I can't imagine what you'd want to talk to me about, unless it was about what I was just referring to." At this point she crossed her arms, and he predicted that if he didn't say something good soon he'd be kicked out of her tent, _relationship_ be damned.

"Ah, yes. That," he said, feigning knowledge of it.

"Oh, so now you _know_ what I'm talking about?" she said, her voice snippy. "Well, if you don't know, just forget I ever asked you, okay?"

"If I didn't know what you were speaking of, that would mean that I would have _already_ forgotten, so your point is invalid," he muttered, strongly desiring to roll his eyes at the blonde nurse's bout of dimwittedness. If he'd said something of that sort during his days at Choate, he would have been shunned for a whole week by his peers.

"What?" she replied, clearly annoyed at his reply.

"What I meant to say is of course I knew all along," he responded. "I was simply practicing some gentlemanly discretion."

"Right. And what did you decide?"

_Yes_ was a good word, and yet _no_ could also be quite useful in some situations. Of course, it wasn't certain what kind of answer was even expected. If he said yes when the actual answer was twelve, he'd feel like quite the ass. Saying _I'm sorry_ was not a valid choice at the moment, but it was always useful in possibly softening the blow once she'd realized he was bluffing about recalling some indiscriminate aspect of their earlier conversation. Of course, she could very well be speaking of their second wager, which he'd already assumed was still on.

"Yes," he blurted. It was worth a shot. A big smile materialized on her face. So he'd given the correct answer. He smiled back at her, his bliss on display.

"Really?"

Another loaded question. What in God's name was he saying _yes_ to? Running naked across the compound? Participating in a séance for the recently deceased? Why could he not recall the details of their last conversation? All he recalled of their last conversation was one, the wager was still on, for she hadn't said otherwise, two, that she seemed a bit on edge, and three, that she didn't want him to spend the night. Being as the other facts were relatively unimportant, the topic at hand had the highest probability being about the wager. He winced ever-so-slightly before sealing his fate with a reply.

"Yes."

Why had she written Charles off so quickly when Hawkeye had came around? Apparently the blue-blooded major wasn't going to go down without a fight. This thought made Margaret quite happy—Hawkeye being simultaneously put in his place after his offhand remarks and her cementing her alleged relationship with Winchester. Now she was grinning toothily, her eyes lit up with excitement. The smile he returned to her was a bit less certain than before, but still a very contented smile nonetheless.

"That kiss was something else, you know," she began, wringing her hands as she looked up at him. "I knew you'd come around once you'd thought about it for a while. So… would you like to do it now?" she asked him, the tone of her voice noticeably sultrier. Nervously he stole a glance at his wristwatch. It was nearly 1 am and he wasn't certain what he'd just agreed to. Did it entail his spending the night or would he have to retreat to the Swamp at 4 am with his tail between his legs? The wager was not scheduled to end until tomorrow, and he hadn't said anything arrogant since they'd agreed to the new wager. He doubted she'd be getting so excited over poetry and the finest foods at this hour; even _he_ was incapable of getting that worked up over that at a time like this. No, the smile on her face was about something else. He'd assumed wrongly as to the nature of the agreement he'd just made with her.

"I—well… " he began haltingly, watching her face intently. The excitement, so evident on her face, transformed into that of concern.

"Eh, we can't—it'd wake everyone up," she replied with a sigh of disappointment. She paused for a few seconds to think, not noticing the look of utter confusion on Winchester's face. It was then that she remembered Tokyo. A night or two in a strange hotel surrounded by solid walls. Tomorrow night. It was perfect. All she had to do now was cancel with Pierce. Hopefully he wouldn't try to blackmail her; it would never work anyway.

"Right," he responded, squinting with uncertainty. Had she propositioned him for sex without his knowledge in their last conversation? If he'd rejected such an offer in his lack of awareness, it was no wonder she'd kicked him out so soon afterwards.

Margaret was greatly troubled by Winchester's uneasy responses. Was he acting this way because the thought of what they'd be doing disturbed him? Was it because he in actuality didn't want to do it? Or was it because he had no idea what he had agreed to? She was tired of arguing for the evening and didn't want to get into yet another disagreement with a M.A.S.H. surgeon. Already she had fought with Hawkeye and Charles—well, at least B.J. wasn't the type to stop by her tent at night.

No, she wasn't going to cancel her trip with Hawkeye just yet. Tomorrow she'd take the opportunity to feel Charles out further about this agreement and only if they were on the same page, she'd ask him to Tokyo instead of Hawkeye. The only issue remaining was if he'd even be available to go, but then again, he was one to obey her every command without dissention. If she told him how much she needed him with her, he'd certainly go. A very grateful kiss from her would seal the deal.

"It'll have to wait," she said with a sigh, not wanting to divulge too much. "Can I talk to you tomorrow afternoon about it?"

"Of course," he replied with a little chuckle, a sliver of confidence returning to him as he thrust his hands in his pockets. "So let me get one thing straight," he remarked. "Our wager for tomorrow is still on, yes?"

"Wager?" she blurted, blinking indignantly. He could only stare at her expression, fear trickling down into his stomach. So the _yes_ he'd uttered apparently had nothing to do with the wager. Damn.

Margaret then happened to recall that today he had proposed a second day for the same wager, and she'd agreed on it before they'd gone any further. Right. What harm could it be? A nice Wagyu steak dinner in Tokyo followed up by some role-playing in the cushy bedroom of some five-star hotel. They'd both win.

"Wager? Yes, Major," she said with a smile, enjoying the rhyme.

"Be prepared for yet another version of me tomorrow. I do believe we are scheduled to be working together."

"I look forward to it," she replied truthfully. Her body throbbed with anticipation of what was to come. Who'd have ever thought she'd be so aroused thinking of an evening with Major Winchester? No way would she let him spoil her eagerness with a hastily spewed comment. She had to bid him adieu, if only to preserve her nighttime fantasies about the activities of tomorrow evening in Tokyo. No need having him destroy it with some unintentionally hurtful comment.

"Goodnight, Major."

Staring at her blankly, he managed to blink a few times before his smile returned.

"May I kiss you goodnight?" he asked, gazing at her earnestly. She felt herself blushing. Tomorrow was certainly looking up for her and it was all because of Charles Winchester. How had she spent so long spurning the advances of this impossibly sweet man? Certainly his exterior was one of arrogance and pomposity, but the charm that lay hidden below was strangely irresistible. Unlike with Hawkeye, though, she felt safer around Charles—she never felt compelled to confess her undying love and devotion to him because it simply wasn't there like it was for Hawkeye. And look where her confessions had gotten her with Hawkeye—nowhere!

Interestingly enough, this kind of aloof, casual relationship with Charles was something she found herself actually considering—a relationship that wouldn't lead to her being hurt badly or being callously rejected as she'd been countless times before. It was clear to her that Winchester wasn't head-over-heels for her either and so it was a win-win situation for both of them. If he'd been in love with her, certainly he would have already told her in so many words, which he had not. Margaret's and Charles's lack of emotional investment in their odd little relationship seemed to be working for her in light of her second harsh rejection by Hawkeye Pierce. Of course, the dark-haired surgeon had more to do with her new outlook than she'd ever admit to.

"Of course you may," she replied, tilting her head up to look at Charles. He had briefly closed his eyes, apparently recalling something. She found herself feeling frustrated at the sight.

"To quote a Harvard alum by the name of Henry Finck: is not a kiss the—"

No, she wasn't going to let him get all sentimental so soon after she'd entered a relationship without it! Suddenly her body was pressed up against his own and his voice promptly faltered. He gaped down at her standing before him, his light blue eyes locking on her own. Her perfectly white teeth were out on display as she smiled up at him, her face surrounded by a halo of golden waves. Though she was dressed for sleep, he concluded that her coral-colored sleepwear accentuated her femininity and her beauty far beyond that of her green military fatigues.

"Just kiss me already, Charles."

"With pleasure," he murmured, his voice breaking, as he removed his hands from his pockets. Without speaking another word, he leaned down and kissed Margaret Houlihan a second time, wrapping his arms around her as he did so. She felt herself swooning at being so enwrapped by this tall, broad-shouldered man. Though prim and proper, he was a man through and through and yet, a very sweet, accommodating man at that. The question was, why had he kept this side of his persona hidden from everyone? And why had she been the one to discover it?

The answers to those questions didn't matter, she decided. All that mattered was that he was here now and she was on the receiving end of a rather breathtaking kiss from Major Charles Emerson Winchester III.

* * *

Could one's face break from smiling too much? The question was a very real one as Winchester quietly slunk into the Swamp, which was thankfully dark. Hopefully Pierce and Hunnicutt were passed out for the night and he could carefully enter his bed and dream of the activities tomorrow in which he and Margaret would be participating. He had to exert a good deal of self-control, he reminded himself, if he was to win this wager. As much as he enjoyed their sessions of corporal punishment, some bona fide romance was in order. He'd been reaping all the benefits from their meetings and it was high time that Margaret was able to do the same. Besides, he missed sitting without incident.

With utmost care, Winchester tiptoed through the dark tent, arriving safely at his bedside before eyeing up the mattress. With his teeth gritted together, he turned around and slowly lowered his body, awaiting the instant his backside would be contacting the mattress. He winced as he felt the mattress beneath him—yet, he was continuing to sink through it—there was no recoil to it.

Winchester let out a yelp of pain followed by a hiss as he fell straight through to the floor on the mattress. At his impromptu cry of distress, Pierce and Hunnicutt sat up in bed, laughing at their bunkmate. They'd set this trap as a way to alert them of Charles's return to the Swamp.

"Want me to help you up, Chuck?" Hunnicutt offered, making no effort to move. Clearly it was just an excuse to tell a silly pun.

"Well, I didn't certainly need any help with that earlier," Hawkeye joked, laughing at their lame attempts at bathroom humor in the darkened tent. "I got all my gagging done hours ago, Beej, but it sounds like you're just getting started."

Charles winced at the puns, shooting a glare Hunnicutt's way.

"Hunnicutt—"

B.J. leaned forward with a bit toothy grin, clearly awaiting the tirade. However, rather than follow up on his retort to the mustached surgeon, Charles looked over at Hawkeye, his expression far calmer.

"Pierce," he said. As he stood up he gave them both a little nod of recognition, a pleased little smile on his face as he did so. "Gentlemen."

Hawkeye and B.J. could only gape at each other at Charles's lack of temper. Apparently things had gone very well with Margaret, for him to be so free of ire. It was enough to make Hawkeye green with envy. He carefully prepared a proper insult, his head still spinning from his drinking session.

Suddenly the light above Charles's bed was turned on, revealing Charles glancing at his mattress, which had been supported with mere crates at its four corners, empty beer crates from the Officers Club from tonight's film showing. Hawkeye and B.J. squinted and covered their eyes as they watched him from their beds, but he didn't acknowledge them further. Quickly he scanned the room, seeing his cot leaning precariously against his desk, his flannel blanket draped over it to hide it from view.

"Would ya turn that light out? There are people here in the process of dying," Hawkeye remarked, knowing the day ahead would not be a good one, if tonight's stomach-emptying episodes were any indication.

Wordlessly Charles pushed his mattress onto its side and cleared the area of crates before taking hold of the cot.

"What the hell, Charles? Aren't you going to cut loose on us?" Hunnicutt muttered, his voice thick with sleep.

Charles could only smile sweetly at his bunkmate as he placed the cot back in its position, replacing the mattress on top of it.

"Don't get too cocky yet, Romeo," Hawkeye muttered, shaking his finger at the balding surgeon. "It's only a success if you're invited to stay overnight. And you weren't."

"That's not how I perceive it," Charles replied coolly. Taking a deep breath, he sat down on the mattress with naught but a whimper and began to untie his boots.

"You can't call yourself a gentleman anymore, kissing that poor woman in public and in front of me, no less."

"Lest you forget, Pierce, that _poor_ woman was the one to initiate the kiss."

"You didn't have to get all into it like some kind of Valentino. You were just lucky there was nothing left in my stomach at that point because it would have been all over your shoes."

"What are you talking about, Hawk?" Hunnicutt chimed in. "I heard you outside the door. If you weren't getting sick, then what _were_ you doing? Strangling someone?"

"I wish," Hawkeye muttered.

"Mind if I give you some dating advice, Pierce?" Charles offered, his tone smug. "My advice is this: women are not attracted to men reeking of vomit and hooch." At that, a self-assured little grin appeared on his face.

"You think you're special just 'cause you got to kiss Margaret?" Hawkeye shot back. "You can get in line behind me, buddy. She has a reputation that I, for one, helped her earn."

Charles hadn't been made aware of the exact nature of Hawkeye and Margaret's disastrous trip to the 8063rd. Even so, he was not swayed and did not so much as blink at Hawkeye's admission.

"I forgive her the mistakes of her past," Winchester remarked with a little smile. "Need I remind you, Pierce, reputation is an idle and most false imposition, oft got without merit, and lost without deserving."

Hawkeye rolled his eyes at the obvious quote, needing to say more before the night was over. Somehow he had to dampen the mood of the impossibly happy Charles, because it was downright nauseating to imagine what the two majors had done once he'd gone back to the Swamp. If he couldn't convince Margaret to leave Charles, he'd have to go about it the other way. It was far easier to do now that he was ticked off at her for rejecting him, especially after he'd dared to say the "L" word. It was also far easier to do now that alcohol had loosened his tongue.

"Margaret has more insecurities than you can shake a stick at," Hawkeye muttered. "You can't handle someone like her."

B.J. couldn't help but gape over at Hawkeye. A mere hour or so ago, Hawkeye was obsessing over Margaret and now he was slandering her name to Winchester. Of course, B.J. had only heard about Margaret's admitted relationship with Winchester and the kiss the majors had shared in her doorway, not the Hawkeye-mediated kiss that had led up to her callously rejecting him. Because of that, Hawkeye's railings seemed highly inappropriate and ill-timed. Margaret's being with Charles wasn't the end of the world and yet Hawkeye was apparently setting himself up to be overheard by her or perhaps blackmailed by Charles. He had to stop Hawkeye's ranting before his friend completely destroyed any chance of a relationship with the head nurse. However, it was Charles who spoke next.

"You couldn't shake a stick right now even if you wanted to, Pierce," Charles retorted. "It would throw off your equilibrium and cause you to lose your lunch yet again." With that, he pulled the blanket and sheet over his legs and leaned back with a little smile. Hawkeye wasn't finished with his tirade.

"What are you talking about?" Hunnicutt commented. "Our so-called _lunches_ pass right through without being digested. Just take my word for it."

Even though B.J. had attempted to divert the conversation, Hawkeye wasn't finished with his bitter tirade.

"I'm warning you, Charles, she'll be fishing for compliments every other minute, and if you don't tell her what she wants to hear, you'd better watch your—"

"Hawk," Hunnicutt muttered, sitting up fully in bed and turning to face his fellow surgeon. "We really need to get some rest before tomorrow. Colonel Potter's not going to give us a break if we get a slew of incoming wounded because everyone is in the same boat."

"Yeah, everyone except for Majors Winchester and Houlihan." With that, Pierce turned angrily to Charles, whipping his head to speak to Hunnicutt. "Wait—that's it! I know what's going on here, Beej. Charles is on a mission to take over Korea. Incapacitating the 4077th was the first step. Getting the head nurse on his side was the second step. Next he'll be taking down the 8063rd one shot at a time. I'm warning you—if you _are_ headed over that way, don't take Margaret with you."

"Knock it off, Hawkeye," B.J. ordered sternly. "Now you're just talking stupid. Go to sleep."

Hawkeye's eyes went wide with shock. Charles sat quietly listening to their conversation with an amused smile on his face.

"Ah, so he got you too," Hawkeye remarked. "You're right where he wants you, Beej. Just remember; you're a mere domino in his master scheme, a domino that fell over just like—"

"Just like you did when you finally found your way back here tonight," B.J. shot petulantly. "Never thought I'd say this, but the stuff coming out of your mouth now is worse than what you threw up outside the mess tent."

"Is that so?" Hawkeye replied with a shrug. "Didn't realize you liked whiskey-and-popcorn-flavored snowcones."

Hunnicutt could only make a face of disgust. "We should all just go to sleep now."

"Is John Wayne as tall as I've heard he is?" Charles inquired. His innocent question was met with glares from both Pierce and Hunnicutt as the two men collapsed back onto their pillows once again. Their grumpy voices answered him simultaneously.

"Shut up, Charles."


	23. Self Effacement

CHAPTER 23 – SELF-EFFACEMENT

"I need more retraction over here," Winchester called out. "Nurse Able, might I borrow you from Hunnicutt for a moment?"

The 4077th had received a handful of patients only an hour before via helicopters and each M.A.S.H. surgeon was almost finished up with his respective patient. Thankfully the wounded hadn't arrived until noon, giving most of the M.A.S.H. plenty of time to sleep off their hangovers.

The tall blonde nurse looked up at Hunnicutt, who gave her a little nod. She strode to Winchester's table and pulled back the liver of the patient with the metal instrument.

"No damage to the liver, Doctor," Major Houlihan, who stood at his side, muttered as she looked at the smooth organ. "I still don't see any shrapnel."

"Just as I'd suspected," Winchester muttered, smiling behind his mask. Margaret was confused.

"What do you mean? He's jaundiced, Doctor, and he was in terrible pain before we put him under. He had to have been hit somewhere."

"You see here," Winchester pointed out, his eyes widening with concentration as he exposed the patient's gallbladder. "Note the obstructive dilatation of the common bile duct."

He looked up at his nurses, who stared down at it without saying a word.

"In other words, Major and Lieutenant, this is a stateside condition, that being choledocholithiasis."

Major Houlihan nodded with recognition, but Nurse Able was baffled by the word. Hunnicutt turned around, looking at the lieutenant.

"In plain English, guy's got a gallstone."

"Thank you for that wholly unnecessary translation, Hunnicutt," Winchester remarked dryly. "Now I shall perform a cholecystectomy," he added, sneering at Nurse Able, "better known as _gallbladder removal_ to the unin.…"

Suddenly Margaret stared up at him, just waiting for him to say some arrogant quip. He immediately stopped speaking.

"To the _what_?" Nurse Able asked during the ensuing silence. Charles let out chuckle of nervousness, having caught himself in the nick of time.

"Ah. I have lost my train of thought. You may return to Dr. Hunnicutt now, Nurse Able. '_Kyu_."

Winchester and Houlihan exchanged a look, unbeknownst to the others. With Margaret standing at his table, Charles found himself having to resist muttering his usual condescending remarks under his breath. Avoiding his usual little jabs at incompetent nurses was far more challenging than merely refraining from insulting Pierce and Hunnicutt across the room. However, the benefits that Margaret's presence brought to his operating table far outweighed that one negative aspect. After all, she was a superior perioperative nurse and pleasant company, and of course, being in close proximity to that admirable body didn't hurt either.

Charles did notice to his bemusement that Pierce's ire was all but gone now. The raven-haired doctor hadn't made a single cutting remark to him in front of Margaret and yet seemed to be focusing most of his attention on Margaret. Every time he would so much as glance in the direction of Pierce's table, he could see that Hawkeye's gaze was directed towards Margaret. It was unsettling watching Pierce in such a state, much like a predator quietly observing his prey. Even so, he kept his mouth shut and refrained from addressing his fellow surgeons.

"Okay, everyone. I got some good news and some bad news," Klinger announced, sticking his nose into the O.R. "What do you wanna hear first?"

"How about the good news—and hold the bad news until further notice," Hawkeye commented, still feeling the pangs of a rather painful hangover.

"Don't worry, the cooks can use it," Hunnicutt said with a shrug. "It'll probably be served as a side with the spamburgers today at lunch."

"What are you talking about?" Hawkeye remarked. "Spamburgers and bad news are one and the same."

"Well then, double spamburgers all around!" Hunnicutt cried triumphantly.

"Okay, okay," Klinger interrupted. "Well, the bad news comes with the good news, I'm afraid. The good news is that the roads have opened up again."

"Wait—lemme guess the bad news," Hawkeye called out. "More casualties?"

"Can't put anything past you, Sir," Klinger replied with a grin. "There's a ton of 'em coming in by bus."

"What, they get wounded in an avalanche?" Hawkeye remarked. "Or did they fall into the lake while ice skating? These kids need to be at home wrapping Christmas presents, not getting wrapped up themselves."

"It's that damn hill 403," Klinger muttered. "Gets 'em every time."

"We should go there and clear the snow off of it so that the surrounding snow makes it seem that much shorter," Father Mulcahy pointed out. "Maybe then they'll stop trying to take it."

"Good idea, Father," Winchester called out. "Let me know how it works out. And well, if it doesn't, you'll be rejoining us in the O.R. soon enough, though as a patient."

Margaret glanced over at him then, giving him a nudge with her foot.

"You lose, Major," she muttered under her breath.

The look she received in return was surprisingly earnest.

"Please, Margaret," he replied quietly. "That was teetering at best."

"Aw, just put a sock in it, will ya, Major?" Potter raged from across the room.

"You've been teetering all morning," Margaret hissed. "You're not going to win this wager, the way you've been toeing the line."

"Ha," he scoffed. "Watch me."

Shortly after having heard his C.O. ragging on him, an uncharacteristically serene Winchester shrugged it off, glancing up briefly to reply to the colonel. "Yes, Sir."

Potter's head shot up at the response, his eyes narrowing at the tall surgeon.

"What did you just say?"

It was then that Charles shot Margaret a furtive glance, his eyes as full of joy as she'd ever seen them.

"I think he said _yes sir_," Hunnicutt replied.

"I didn't ask you," Potter grumbled, glaring briefly at Hunnicutt. It was then that he stared over at Charles's table. "Winchester, you alright? Or is this gonna be like that odd rigmarole of yours yesterday?"

The younger surgeon looked up from his patient.

"Never better, Sir." With that, he lifted his foot and nudged Margaret's leg suggestively with it, Potter totally unaware of the act.

"There you go again, _Sir_ring me up again," Potter replied, throwing his hands up in the air in utter exasperation. "If you're having some sort of psychotic episode, Winchester, we'd better call in Dr. Freedman. No need for you to confuse us all more than we already are."

Shockingly, at the end of Potter's remark, Winchester hung his head contritely. In addition to Colonel Potter, Hawkeye, B.J. and several nurses were now staring at him, their mouths ajar behind their masks. When Winchester looked back over at the colonel, his expression was rueful. Little did his coworkers know that he was playing footsy with Margaret under the operating table.

"Colonel, I apologize for my misbehavior up to this point in time," he stated, shaking his head as he did so. "I am ashamed to know that you had to tolerate such impudence for so long. It shall not happen again."

Hawkeye was stunned silent. Was Winchester being serious? Had the major's short fling with Margaret really altered the man so much?

"What exactly are you calling misbehavior, Major?" Potter replied, still lost in the major's words.

"That would be the extent of my behavior since my arrival at the 4077th," Winchester said. "My condescension towards these fine men and women, as well as my constant pleas for a transfer. I had not granted you the respect you so justly deserve, and for that I apologize."

With that, Colonel Potter turned to his company clerk, his eyes wide as saucers.

"Klinger, get Dr. Freedman on the horn."

* * *

After a couple of hours of enduring Winchester's fake show of sorrow, Hawkeye successfully pulled Margaret away from Winchester on a particularly "difficult" case.

"Some suction here, Major," Hawkeye said, indicating the blood-filled chest of the patient.

"Anyone could have done this for you, Doctor," she replied, beginning to remove the blood with the vacuum tube as she stood beside him, their backs to Winchester's table. "You didn't have to call me from the opposite end of the room. There were plenty of nurses in between you and me."

"But I _did_ have to call you from over there," Hawkeye interrupted, his voice barely audible over the suction. Certainly no one besides Margaret could hear him. A look of concern came to his eyes as he leaned close to her ear. "Margaret, you're falling for him too fast. You need to take it easy before he kicks you to the curb. You're overwhelming him with your looks of love—it's so obvious."

"What?" she whispered harshly. He had to be joking! She was doing nothing different, other than enjoying the occasional foot nudge from Charles. She had invested no strong feelings in this relationship and was definitely _not_ shooting Winchester lovey-dovey looks.

"I'm serious, Margaret—just looking out for the well-being of your new relationship. Charles doesn't like to be tied down too much too fast. He's a free spirit kind of guy."

"Ha," she spat. "Are you talking about Charles Winchester or Hawkeye Pierce? That sounds a lot more like you."

"We men are all alike," Hawkeye spouted, glad to be convincing her slowly but surely. "You saw Charles with that fake wife of his—he was terrified of that woman. He couldn't wait to be rid of her."

She cocked her head to the side, uncertain of that fact. The pair had had a kind of natural camaraderie, one that couldn't be denied, even at their un-marriage ceremony.

"Besides, Margaret, he's got all that money," Hawkeye added. "Unlike, say, someone like me, Winchester has to protect his assets. He's not just gonna let any woman come and take it away, believe you me. To him, every woman is a potential gold digger."

"Oh, I get it now," she muttered in reply. Hawkeye smiled with joy behind his mask, listening intently as she spoke again. "So _that's_ why you called me over here, to give me advice about my relationship."

"Actually, I mainly needed your help with the patient," he replied, nodding fervently, his smile having since faded. "Anyway, I'm looking out for your welfare—you know, being a good friend."

"Is that what this is?" she replied, feigning ignorance. "Because from what I know of you, it sounds to me that you're trying to get my new relationship ended as quickly as possible. Don't make me laugh—Charles, a free spirit?"

"Hey, I'm the one who bunks with him," Hawkeye replied matter-of-factly. "I have to be around him all the time and I know him like a book: he's thick, spineless and full of big words."

"You talk way more about him than he does about you," she retorted. Pierce merely shrugged.

"That's because he's too busy talking about himself."

* * *

"Please, Margaret, I should like to celebrate early: a pre-celebration, as it were."

With that, Winchester deftly popped the cork out of the bottle of Montrechet that he'd left in Margaret's tent. He'd spent the entire surgery shift contrite, quiet, and constantly nudging her or otherwise flirting with her out of sight below the operating table. The shift had ended, however, with Margaret at Hawkeye's side, helping him out on Hawkeye's final patient and hearing his 'advice'. Winchester was merely closing up his patient when the dark-haired doctor had called Margaret over.

"It's too early to start drinking, Major; there could be more casualties any minute. Besides," she said, taking the bottle from him, "I wanted to talk more about last night."

"Oh, is that right?" he murmured, his eyes locked on the bottle as she set it down, out of arm's reach. After he'd given up hope of drinking, he looked at her to see that she was studying his reaction. She crossed her arms and he heard himself gulp with dread.

"Let me ask you directly. Do you know what you agreed to last night?"

A quick intake of breath was his immediate response, and after she'd seen that, she knew the answer. His blue eyes went wide at being posed such a question and he opened his mouth to reply, but she beat him to it.

"I knew it," she griped. "You have no idea." All her ideas of the immediate future went flying out the window. So Charles hadn't pleasantly surprised her the night before—so there wasn't some fun role-play in their little fling's future. Needless to say, there wasn't much hope of a fling left, after all was said and done. He had gone to her tent last night for one reason and one reason only: to see if Pierce was there. She couldn't help but feel bitter towards every man in her life. Hawkeye had rejected her and Winchester simply wasn't interested in her.

"I'm sure that whatever it is, it's in your and my best interests," he explained. "I'd never seen you happier to hear me say yes."

"That's because it was so unlike you to say yes to what I was asking of you. The first time I'd mentioned it, you couldn't even justify it with a valid response. It's just like you men to give the wrong answer even when you know that the right answer is."

"I still don't know what you're talking about," he said with a sigh. "And while we're on the subject of being disappointed, did my little exhibition today not mean anything to you?" he murmured. "I laid the apologies on so thick that I nearly drowned Colonel Potter in them. You haven't so much as acknowledged that achievement in humility."

"Ha," she scoffed. "You only did that to win the wager. Of course, that's not what you're _really_ like."

"Margaret, if I happen to win this wager, it is in actuality _you _who is the winner. I want to show you what all I have to give."

"That sounded like an arrogant statement if ever there was one," she retorted.

"Please don't count that against me. I was merely trying to explain something to you."

"Okay, fine fine," she muttered, clearly disappointed. "Conversation, candles, and cow meat. I know, I know."

"Wagyu steak is not mere meat, my dear; it is an experience. Do you not care about the outcome of today's wager?"

"I did, until I realized that you'd agreed to something without even knowing what I was talking about, just to get me to shut up about it."

"That's not true."

"Well, what _is_ true is that as soon as one of us wins this wager, you go back to being you, arrogance and all."

He frowned at her, the grimace on his face tinged with bitter disappointment.

"You're just going to have to accept me for who I am before this… thing between us can continue. I'm tired of pretending to be someone I'm not to satisfy your standards. I will gladly play pretend for a wager but I refuse to maintain this façade indefinitely."

Her face fell at his scolding of her. He'd greatly wounded her pride, and it showed. So he was not the perpetually loyal man she thought he was. At sight of the newly downtrodden Margaret, Charles's blue eyes widened with pity.

"Now, Margaret," he said with the utmost gentleness, "what exactly was it that you hoped I'd agreed to last night?"

"Forget it," she scoffed, waving her hand dismissively.

"Please… tell me," he pleaded, taking her hand in his own. She pulled away from him, flashing him a look of irritation. Charles was not about to change for her and she was not about to accept such a caricature of arrogance as a romantic partner. Hawkeye, with all his philandering ways and inability to take anything seriously, had a slightly higher chance with her. Of course, neither man was anywhere near ideal. Would she have to officially end it with Charles or would he get the point when she flew to Tokyo with Hawkeye? She guessed the latter—it was the coward's way out, but it would have the intended effect.

"What I'd thought you agreed on would require you to act very different than usual—which you just told me you won't do. Don't bother asking."

"I've not tried to alter you, Margaret. God knows you aren't perfect either but I'm fine with that."

"What do you mean by that?" she blurted, her insecurities on display as she narrowed her eyes at him.

"No one is perfect," he replied, carefully choosing his words. "I'm not claiming to be perfect. Certain flaws are necessary for the whole."

"Spare me your lines," she muttered, rubbing her head.

"I can hardly claim that as my own," he replied. "That would be Goethe."

"Speaking of which, I think it would be _Goethe_ if you left now. I have some things to take care of."

She watched him close his eyes dramatically before replying. So this was how it would end—anticlimactically. It was a far cry from the passionate way their brief affair had begun.

"To preserve my good opinion of you, I'll pretend you didn't just say that," Winchester muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets and opening his eyes once again, unaware of Margaret's inner thoughts as to the impending end. "I am on duty in post-op, so I will excuse myself. Major."

With that, he gave her a curt little nod and left her tent, completely unaware that Margaret had just written him off once and for all for a trip to Tokyo with Hawkeye Pierce.

* * *

"Can you knock it off already?" Margaret screamed, as she leered at her companion from behind the wheel of a jeep. She'd had to endure ten minutes of Hawkeye Pierce's attempts at operatic singing as soon as they'd pulled out of eyeshot of the 4077th. Both wore helmets and she wished she'd worn earmuffs as well.

The dark-eyed doctor paused in his song for a moment, glancing down at the snow-lined dirt road they'd been driving along.

"Knock it off out of the jeep?" he asked, looking at the ground, unbeknownst to Margaret.

"Yes!" she cried.

"What? I'm no litterbug," he protested, gesturing at the roadside. "Besides, I'm used to _carrying_ litters, not dropping them."

"Captain, if you don't stop singing, I'm going to knock _you_ off out of the jeep," she retorted.

He gave her a pouty look.

"Don't you recognize it, Margaret? It's the exact song I was singing on our trip to the 8063rd—"

"I recognize it," she shot irritably, keeping her guard up. "Don't remind me of that stupid lapse in judgment."

"It may have been a lapse in judgment, but it wasn't stupid. I happen to think you were exercising very good taste."

"I have yet to exercise good taste," she muttered bitterly. Hawkeye's face lit up.

"You mean, Charles isn't what you consider to be good taste? Seemed like you were liking the taste of him yesterday."

She scoffed at him, her sour expression unchanging even as they hit a rather sizable pothole.

"Don't make me regret bringing you along, Captain."

"Oh, so I take it you'd rather have Chuckles sitting here beside you, berating you for jarring his bad back?"

"His back isn't that bad," she replied, recalling his lack of complaint during their sessions. Hawkeye covered his ears and closed his eyes in pain.

"Ugh, please tell me I didn't hear you say that, Margaret. That brings terrible, terrible images to mind."

"Give me a break," she retorted. "What do you have against him anyway?"

"You mean, besides remembering your body pressed up against him last night? Maybe it's the fact that he's rich, but… I digress."

"Sounds like jealousy to me."

He turned to her, staring at her with incredulity.

"Is that what you think? Me, jealous of Winchester?" he said, a hand to his chest as he spoke. "No way. Sure, I'd like more money, but where am I going to spend it here in Uijeongbu? And I'm most definitely not envious of his hairstyle. I'm calling it now; you won't last with him, Margaret. I'll bet you'll never even get to hold his hand, because he'll be too busy patting himself on the back."

"That's not true—today was a prime example," she replied. "He can suppress his ego."

"Nope—it's always there, Margaret, lurking in that blue blood of his; it's the very core of his being. Denying him his ego would be denying him himself. He couldn't live with that. And believe me, _you_ couldn't live with his ego."

Though she frowned at him, Margaret couldn't help but wonder if her little tryst with Charles had started the wheels rolling in a rekindled relationship with Hawkeye. He _had_ told her he had loved her the night before. Hearing those words from Hawkeye Pierce would be impossible to forget. The man simply didn't say things like that. He used a barrage of jokes to keep himself close to others but not too close. In a way, his constant wisecracks had kept her at bay.

So now he was trying to steer her away from Charles. It was certainly a sign that he was interested in her. She felt a pang of guilt at leaving Charles behind without a word about where she was going, but the fact remained that their little dalliance had been based on a mere wager, a wager that hadn't gone as planned.

Margaret glanced over at Hawkeye, seeing that he was squinting in the sun, probably snow-blind as well.

"If that's true," she began, "then what do you recommend as an alternative?"

He thought for a moment, a devilish smile soon appearing on his face.

"Well, the antidote to pure arrogance is self-effacing humor…. And guess what? I have plenty of that to go around."

She looked mildly amused.

"Oh, is that right?"

"Sure it is. I can efface myself all day—I can even efface my face." he replied, beaming. "For example, did you know I get self-conscious every time I hear my name?"

She shot him a look of disbelief.

"You mean, _Hawkeye_?"

"Yeah. Wanna know why?"

She glanced over at him, waiting for his answer.

"Hawk eye_brows_, I think to myself," he replied. "As dark as my hair is, I don't have big black eyebrows to match; ever notice that? Sometimes I wish I could play Groucho Marx all the time—balances my face out better, I think."

"Ha, Groucho Marx. Just to let you know, Hawkeye, looking like him isn't an asset."

"Wait, lemme think of another one. Ah," he said, recalling something. "Did you know that when I was in medical school, they'd always pass the fat patients on to me to work on?"

"What does that have to do with your face?" she muttered, continuing to face the road.

"I was told it was because I had a bigger field of vision, you know, because of how wide-set my eyes are, and that I probably couldn't even see the skinny patients."

"Ha," she deadpanned. "I don't believe that one for a second."

"Fine, fine—you got me," he muttered with a shake of the head. "I made that one up. But I _do_ have wide-set eyes. Sometimes I wonder if my dad nicknamed me Hawkeye because he could only see one of my eyes at a time."

"Could you tell me what that has to do with anything?"

"I'm just saying, this kind of self-effacing conversation wouldn't happen between you and Winchester. Like, has he ever addressed the fact that the Winchester bloodline does not include head hair on its men?"

"Does that really matter?" she shot back. "I know he has no hair. He doesn't have to tell me that he doesn't. Ugh, can we just drop the subject of Major Winchester for a while?"

"Gladly," he replied. "And maybe you could work on erasing the image of you two that's burned into my mind from last night."

"Fine," she muttered, scanning the road in front of them. "Let's play 'I spy.' I'll go first. I spy… something orange."

A half-smile came to Hawkeye's face as he glanced over at Margaret.

"Let's skip that color for now," he commented. "It's too similar to the color of your pajamas last night. How about blue instead?"

"You do realize that I'm supposed to pick the color of whatever I spy," she replied.

"I'd rather you not spy anything orange, gold, or green for now," he said. "Egh, make that red too."

"And why not?"

"The image stuck in my head, Margaret. Orange for the pajamas, gold for Winchester's pin, green for his fatigues, and red for your lips."

She let out a sigh at his long-winded reasoning.

"Well, you've convinced me, Hawkeye," she muttered tiredly. "Go ahead and sing to your heart's content."

* * *

**A/N: Preview of next chapter:**

"Come on," he said, draping an arm over her and gently pulling her hand away from her door. "Just a sandwich or something. It'll be on me. Just make sure not to bite me while you're eating it."

**Interested readers, if you're still following along and have anything (and I mean, anything) to say about this story so far or in the future, please say it and leave me some feedback! I'd love to finish posting this story by the new year and your feedback helps me know I'm on the right/wrong track!**


	24. Paper Doll

**A/N: My longest chapter yet! I'd love to have some feedback!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 24 – PAPER DOLL**

Later that evening, Captain Hunnicutt entered the showers to find Major Winchester in a stall, his head bowed as he drenched himself with steaming hot water directly from the tap, his phonograph blaring a haunting swell of classical music. Clearly the man was deep in thought, for he didn't even look up at the sudden intrusion even though he was disrobed and in danger of being caught off-guard.

As Hunnicutt entered the stall next to Winchester, the balding surgeon began muttering, his eyes closed as water poured on him from the showerhead.

"He took my 12-year old scotch, the classless dolt. His suitcase is missing, even his dress uniform."

"What _is_ that funereal music, Charles? You should've let Margaret take that record with her to Tokyo. It would've been more appropriate to play during the service."

"So Margaret went to Tokyo, did she," Winchester deadpanned. "Is Pierce with her?"

Hunnicutt ignored Winchester's question and asked his own.

"I'm serious, Charles, what is this music?"

"It's the fourth movement of Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 6 in B minor," Winchester muttered with an annoyed air. "It was his final completed symphony and premiered a mere nine days before his death."

The song playing on Winchester's phonograph was quite the self-descriptive piece—its more common name being the Pathetique. Charles had entered the shower several minutes before Hunnicutt's intrusion, setting up his phonograph with care and then allowing for the music to envelop him in the quiet of the evening. _Pathetic_ was a good word for him, he surmised, after it had dawned on him that Margaret's round-a-bout way of making him say yes was actually a ploy to get him to accompany her to Tokyo. Why had she gone about it with such secrecy? Had she really expected him to be so against it as to refuse to let her speak of the funeral? However, instead of him simply feigning knowledge of the ruse for several minutes longer, he had blown his cover, and she'd chosen the womanizer Pierce as her companion.

Hunnicutt shrugged at Winchester's remark.

"He lasted a whole nine days after it premiered? I would never have guessed he'd live that long. He probably realized that next to this music, suicide is painless."

Winchester barely stifled a scoff of amusement.

"It was, in fact, cholera that struck him down in middle age. Tell me, Hunnicutt, did Pierce accompany that woman?"

"_Cholera_ woman if you must, but never a girl," Hunnicutt replied matter-of-factly, turning on the taps for his shower stall. At this, Charles's head shot up and he summarily wiped the water from his eyes, glaring at the mustached man next to him, his lips curled up in utter distaste.

"Where is he, Hunnicutt?"

Hunnicutt flashed him a smile and shrugged. Winchester's temper soared.

"I demand to know where he is."

Hunnicutt grinned before replying.

"Aww, Charles, don't any of my puns _symphony_ to you?

"That does it, simpering swine!" Charles roared. With that, he reached over his shower stall, wrapping his hands around B.J.'s neck in a strangle hold. His eyes almost bugging out of his head with shock, B.J. pulled Charles's hands off of his neck and stared him down warily from the far corner of his stall.

"What is your problem?" B.J. asked, panting and rubbing his sore neck. "You started today like a lamb and now you're going out like a lion. It's a backwards March in the middle of December."

"Pierce is my problem," Winchester retorted, the volume of his voice nearly back to normal, "and so are you," he added, pointing accusatorily at the mustached doctor. "You two are truly made for each other, scheming to keep me from learning the truth."

"Do you realize that you just now tried to strangle me, Charles? I don't care what you think I did; I don't deserve to be treated that way, especially by you."

Charles froze in place, eyeing Hunnicutt's reddened neck with a look of remorse. Without saying another word, he turned back around and faced the taps, bowing his head directly under the showerhead again.

"Did you hear what I just said?" B.J. demanded, raising his voice as he took a step towards the taller man. "I think you owe me an apology. You know, Colonel Potter was right in sending for Dr. Freedman. You need help."

B.J. watched a sigh pass through Winchester's body as the surgeon proceeded to drape his forearms over the taps, resting his forehead on the overlap of his arms. Winchester stood in the position for what seemed like five minutes in complete silence, hot water streaming down his back unheeded. All the while he thought of his stupidity earlier in the day and the fact that both Margaret and Pierce were gone.

Certainly that _was_ the question Margaret had been asking him about the night before, the one he'd agreed to without knowing its implications; she'd been asking him to attend the funeral in Tokyo with her. She'd asked him if they 'wanted to do it now', most likely meaning to leave at that time, and then she'd decided against it, saying they'd wake people up. That made sense—obviously starting one of Rizzo's noisy Army jeeps at 0100 hours was bound to wake the entire compound up, sober or blotto. Not only that, but she'd revealed earlier today that the first time she'd mentioned _it_, he hadn't justified it with a valid response. Of course; she'd been referring to his quip about delayed mourning as opposed to conveying sympathy over her loss. That was what she'd meant—he was sure of it now. And instead of him accompanying her now, it was Pierce who was headed to Tokyo with her. The heartrending music seemed even more appropriate, in light of his certainty—not only had he made Margaret believe that she needed to choose her words carefully with him, but now Hunnicutt was making some very good points about his current state of mind. Hunnicutt's voice cut into his thoughts.

"I don't want to have to say it ag—"

"I'm sorry, Hunnicutt," Charles blurted, his words muffled by the downwards angle of his mouth and the noise of the water striking his back. "I lost control. I'm no better than a common hoodlum."

"I would hardly call you a hoodlum, Charles," Hunnicutt remarked sympathetically, patting his bunkmate on the back. "Why don't you tell me what's bothering you, instead of taking out your rage on me? I make a far better listener when I'm alive."

"I just don't understand it," Winchester muttered, shaking his head. "How could she take that lecherous dolt to her father's funeral in Tokyo? I would've accompanied her."

He heard a scoff from Hunnicutt.

"Not to give the eulogy, I hope."

Winchester visibly winced at the reminder of his own quip.

"How could she have interpreted an isolated incident of insensitivity as my unwillingness to go?"

"Well, did you talk about it with her?" Hunnicutt asked, watching Charles lift his head off of his arms and stand up fully.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Charles muttered, looking ill-at-ease.

"What do you mean, _in a manner of speaking_?"

"The truth of the matter is, Hunnicutt, she asked me a question in which she failed to define the implications of the answer I'd give. I am now certain that she was asking me to accompany her at that time, but for some incomprehensible reason, she couldn't bring herself to ask me outright."

"Well, you did insult her several times when she'd first mentioned her father's death. You called him insufferable; remember that? I'm really surprised she'd even want you to go, after you said those things."

"Do you think she was afraid to make her wishes known to me? That I would—" he began, deep in thought, "…that I would, in essence—"

"Well, you _are_ capable of strangling someone," Hunnicutt cut in, gesturing at his neck.

"Ugh, I've made far too many missteps in a mere two days' time," Winchester said quietly, rubbing his eyes. It was not evident if he was removing the shower water or trying to cover up the fact that he was visibly upset. "This is all my fault."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Hunnicutt said encouragingly. "You know Margaret can be overly sensitive at times, and you just so happened to catch her on a very bad day."

"How could I be so thoughtless?" Charles mumbled in a higher pitched voice than usual, his voice breaking mid-sentence. "The woman's father died and I had nothing to offer her but insults." He paused, his shoulders rising and falling with a sigh. "I don't blame her for taking Pierce with her—at least he had the good sense to comfort her in her time of need. I, on the other hand…."

"Snap out of it, Charles," Hunnicutt replied, his face full of concern. "It's no good wallowing in self-pity, believe me. If you don't keep your chin up, you're going to drown in it soon."

From his standing position directly in front of the taps, Charles dunked his head under the showerhead, drenching his head with the now lukewarm water. With eyes shut and head angled downwards, he cupped his hands over his nose and mouth, as if seeing some awful sight, though its actual purpose was to keep water from getting into his mouth as he spoke. Winchester proceeded to speak through his hands, his voice muffled but clear enough to be understood. It was odd for Hunnicutt to see Winchester in such a vulnerable state, both physically and emotionally; as much as Winchester annoyed him at times, he did not want to see the man cry.

"It's not self-pity, Hunnicutt," Winchester snapped. "It's more like self-loathing. And duly deserved at that."

"C'mon Charles; no need to dwell on it. How 'bout I buy you a round at the Officers Club after we've finished up in here?"

"Why bother," Winchester muttered. "If I'm this much of an ass when I'm sober, no telling what horrors await after I've had a few drinks."

"I know you when you're drunk, Charles, and believe me, you're much better company then."

Charles squinted with discomfort at the little quip, as B.J. continued speaking.

"It'd be good for you to relax. Besides, there's nothing you can do about it until they get back."

"And when will that be? She never even told me when the damned funeral is."

"I think Hawkeye said it was tomorrow morning. They'll probably be back by tomorrow night."

"I doubt it," Charles muttered, removing his hands from his face. "I'm sure Pierce has other plans." He took a step out from under the showerhead, blinking the water out of his eyes.

"Isn't she with you? By what she said to Hawk and by what you and she did in front of him, I'd guess _yes_. Hawkeye wouldn't do—"

"But he _would_, Hunnicutt, and he _has_. He is now accompanying her to the funeral, is he not? That was most certainly done with the knowledge that she and I are… dating."

"When _did_ you and Margaret get together, anyway? Before she found out about her father? Because if that's true, you really are an—"

"After," Winchester curtly replied. With that, he reached towards the taps and turned off the shower, for it had become progressively colder during the course of their conversation. The record had since stopped without either man noticing of it.

"But it's only been two days since you received your double dose of slaps. When did it become a—"

"That same day." With that, the major fidgeted uncomfortably, not liking the direction this conversation was headed.

Hunnicutt looked utterly taken aback, gawking at Charles with his mouth hanging open.

"Wait—are you saying you converted her extremely justified anger into a relationship that very same day?"

"I suppose so."

"How? I've never seen a more strong-minded person than she is. There's no way in hell you could've convinced her of your righteousness in insulting her dead dad."

"That's because I didn't," Winchester retorted, the beginnings of a mischievous smile on his face.

"Then what did you do?"

"You could say I… surprised her."

"With what?"

B.J. was met with a teasing smile from Charles.

"Hunnicutt, I recommend you proceeding with your shower before the tank runs dry. Does your offer for a drink still stand?"

Hunnicutt didn't hide his disappointment at Charles's lack of response.

"It does, though it looks like you no longer need a pick-me-up."

"I most certainly do. Only took two days for a blossoming romance to fall apart, and Margaret probably canoodling with Pierce as we speak."

"If you don't mind my asking, what changed your mind about her? I know that you were interested in her when you first arrived here, but that never seemed to pan out—well, until now."

"I would hardly call it panning out, Hunnicutt, what with her sobbing on Pierce's shoulder at present."

Hunnicutt was not satisfied with that response, being as his question had not been answered. He started soaping himself up as he waited patiently for Winchester's answer.

"Right, what changed my mind," Charles began, looking up in the air, his face scrunched with concentration. "How can I explain it…." Immediately B.J. made certain his ears were not under water and listened intently, though he tried to downplay his curiosity.

Charles smiled enigmatically at Hunnicutt then. The suspense was almost too much to take. Hearing any details of Charles Winchester that didn't include Harvard, Boston, the Winchester name, money or his many talents was refreshing. Hunnicutt raised his eyebrows, subtly leaning forward.

"So?"

"I guess you could say Major Houlihan caught me off-guard." With that, Charles shut his mouth and began scanning the surrounding area for his towel and robe.

Hunnicutt screwed up his face at the curt reply, proceeding to soap up his chest.

"Aw, c'mon, Charles, you can do better than that. We never get to talk like this. Get it off your chest."

"It's not on my chest, Hunnicutt; it's in my head, where it belongs. Now," he said, moving towards the stall door, "if you'll excuse me."

Before he could leave the shower stall, Winchester froze in place. Realization hit him then, the possibility of Hunnicutt seeing the physical evidence from the night before in the form of lash marks. His light eyes scanned the area outside his stall. Where was his towel?

Ugh. Not only was his towel several feet out of arm's reach, but it had also fallen on the floor and was probably damp. His blue robe hung further away still. How had he been so preoccupied that he hadn't even considered the probability that he'd be seen while walking the sizable distance between shower and towel?

As long as he remained in the shower stall, there was no possibility of Hunnicutt looking down, but once he was out in the open, Hunnicutt inadvertently catching sight of such a thing was likely. After he'd froze in place, he turned back to face the taps.

"Aren't you headed out?" B.J. asked.

"I can't reach my towel from here," Charles replied, pointing at the item on the floor.

"So? That never stopped you before. Just go get it."

Now that Hunnicutt's suspicions were raised, there was no way that Winchester would dare leave this shower stall.

"Ah," Charles murmured, touching his head. "I think I left some soap in my hair—guess I'll be a bit longer. Are you almost done?"

"Almost," B.J. replied, rinsing the suds off his shoulders. "Why?"

"What's with all the questions?" Winchester muttered, rolling his eyes and turning his taps back on. The stream of water was too cold for comfort, but he had to keep the façade going at least until Hunnicutt was done.

"Getting shy all of a sudden, are we? You can go get dried off, Charles; I promise I won't look."

"I have _soap_ in my hair."

Hunnicutt grinned at him.

"What hair?"

Hunnicutt thought for a moment about the implications of Charles refusing to leave the shower stall, being as Charles hadn't bothered to justify it with a valid response. A big toothy grin materialized on the mustached doctor's face as he then pointed at his colleague. "Oh my God, Charles—you're hiding Margaret's love-bites, aren't you?"

His face reddening like a beet, Winchester promptly stuck his head under the cold shower.

"Come on, where are they?" Hunnicutt giddily asked, eyeing Winchester's neck. "Further south? What did she do, Cuddles? The suspense is killing me!"

"If you don't lay off the inquisition, Hunnicutt, _I'll_ be the one to kill you."

* * *

"Can we join you?" Colonel Potter asked as he and Corporal Klinger approached the jeep tire table where Hunnicutt and Winchester were parked sipping on their respective drinks.

"Be our guest," Winchester stated, gesturing to an empty chair for the colonel. As Potter sat down, Winchester glanced up see Klinger frowning. "You too, Klinger."

"What in Sam Hill were you trying to pull in the O.R. today, Major?" Potter spat, a glass of scotch in hand. "All that apologizing was enough to make me want to gag."

"Join the club," Winchester added, taking another sip of his cognac.

Colonel Potter blinked with utter confusion.

"Are you trying to drive me nuts? What's going on with you, Winchester? I'd have thought it was _your_ father who died, what with all the weird stunts you've been pullin' these last couple of days."

Winchester could only chuckle at his commanding officer, a satisfied little smirk on his face.

"I mean it, Major—what's gotten into you lately?"

"I think you mean, _who_ has Major Winchester gotten into lately," Hunnicutt corrected. He was met with a wide-eyed glare and an elbow from the blue-blooded surgeon.

"What in the love of Rita Hayworth are you two smilin' about?" Potter muttered, glaring at Winchester and Hunnicutt. "We got thirty-five casualties in post-op, a generator getting ready to run out of gas, and a compound covered in almost two feet of snow."

"Is it not better that our casualties are currently post-op and _not_ pre-op or triage?" Winchester murmured.

"Yeah, Colonel," Hunnicutt added. "You gotta see both sides of the coin." At that he shrugged, glancing over at Charles and then at his C.O. "I mean, it could be worse."

"It's far better to have patients in post-op than in triage," Charles commented.

"Though really," B.J. said, "you gotta have _patients_ every step of the way, especially when you're stitching up a wound."

"True, Hunnicutt," Charles responded. "The 4077th would be pointless without _patients_—though it is fortunate that casualties are low at the present time."

B.J. grinned unabashedly at Charles and opened his mouth to speak.

"You can always tell when there's been a bad blizzard because there's _snowmen_ being brought in by jeep."

Winchester couldn't help but look over at Hunnicutt and crack up at Hunnicutt's rather clever pun. Colonel Potter let out a guffaw, and then, acutely aware of an uncharacteristic affability between the two men in front of him, felt compelled to ask about this new development—not that it was a bad thing, of course.

"Since when did you two get so chummy?" Colonel Potter inquired, seeing that the surgeons were still both smiling widely.

"Chummy?" Winchester said with a chortle. "Not hardly. A Winchester is not a _chum_ of anyone. The very name brings to mind fish bait."

"You're gonna be fish bait if you don't answer my earlier question," Potter retorted with a little grin, amused by the friendly exchanges all around.

"Actually, I'm pretty sure the Han River is solid ice right about now, so the fish are safe for now," B.J. commented. Potter frowned.

"Keep out of this, B.J." He turned to Winchester. "Never mind your chumminess or whatever you want to call it. What I wanna know is what was with all that baloney today in the O.R., Major? An attempt at a Section Eight? Believe you me, there's nothing you can try that Klinger hasn't already failed."

"He's right, Sir," Klinger replied, nodding enthusiastically. "But know this—I didn't actually fail, Major; I just learned how to go about it all wrong."

"It isn't that, Colonel," Winchester muttered, looking irritated. "Perhaps I was a bit… overzealous, but I—"

"Overzealous? Major, you were obnoxious! _I'm sorry, Colonel. I hope you can forgive me, Sir._ Well, I've had my fill of apologies from you!"

Winchester could only smirk, lifting his glass in the air.

"Duly noted, Sir. I shan't ever make that mistake again."

Colonel Potter gave an enthusiastic nod but soon realized what he'd agreed to. With that, he finished off his scotch with a roll of the eyes.

* * *

Hawkeye and Margaret stood side by side at the check-in desk at their hotel in Tokyo. The nurse was quite road-weary by this point, but Hawkeye was a bundle of energy. Without saying a word to Hawkeye, Margaret strode up to the concierge, a joyous-looking Japanese man standing behind a giant marble desk backlit with pinkish lights and surrounded by carved marble flowers.

"Major Margaret Houlihan," she stated, glancing around at the impressive scenery in front of her. "I have reservations for tonight."

"Hopefully they're not about me," Hawkeye said with a snicker from somewhere behind her. She ignored the comment, watching the concierge take out a large book and begin flipping through the pages, his eyes lighting up as he found her name.

"Houlihan," the concierge exclaimed, taking out another form and a fountain pen. She watched him impatiently as he proceeded to fill out the form with an impossibly happy smile on his face. After he was done, she sighed with relief. However, rather than having her sign the form, he slipped it down behind the desk and stood looking down at it. Margaret tried to glance over the desk, but she couldn't see what he was doing. Irritated, she glanced to either side of her, but Pierce wasn't standing beside her.

"What are you doing back there, Pierce?" she muttered, looking back at the dark-haired man behind her.

"While you're checking in, I thought I'd check you out," he replied, grinning at her. She rolled her eyes.

"Get up here."

He complied immediately, and soon noticed the concierge's head bowed as he fiddled with something behind the desk.

"What's he doing?" he asked her. "Wait—maybe he wants us to bow to him."

With that, he bowed dramatically. The desk clerk was preoccupied and didn't so much as look up. Only a moment later, however, he lifted his head and pretended a moment hadn't passed.

"You know origami?" the Japanese concierge asked her. "The Lotus give each guest a folded lotus." The desk clerk placed an intricately folded piece of paper on the desk. "If you open it without ripping it, you get free room service tonight."

"I don't need room service," Margaret muttered irritably. "Just tell me my room number."

"It in the lotus, Madam," he explained, pointing at the item on the desk. "You have to open it."

As she took the intricately folded piece of paper in her hands, Pierce began to sing to her in his pleasant vibrato.

"I'm gonna buy a paper doll that I can call my own, a doll that other fellows cannot steal—and then the flirty, flirty guys—"

"Can it, Captain," she muttered, eyeing up the piece of paper. "I have to check into my room."

"Our room, you mean," he corrected, smiling devilishly.

"No. My room."

"What are you talking about?" he exclaimed, turning out his pockets. "I don't have the money for that!"

"I'll pay for your room. You just stay out of mine or I'm going to make you eat your bill."

"Ha," he replied in mock upset, crossing his arms. "You couldn't ask that of a duck."

"Another stupid comment like that, Captain, and I'll make you quack."

* * *

Charles Winchester stood alone in the Officers Club in front of the jukebox. He'd spent the last couple of hours nursing a mere three cognacs while avoiding any discussion of Margaret or the reasoning for his strange behavior in the O.R., though Potter and Klinger persistently pushed him to divulge. After glancing at the catalog, he dropped his nickel in the slot and keyed in the code for the song. As the first sounds of saxophone and trumpet streamed through the speakers, Winchester stood in front of the jukebox with hands in his pockets, his eyes closed as he listened to the words of Don Cornell recounting his exact thoughts in musical form.

_It isn't fair for you to taunt me  
How can you make me care this way  
It isn't fair for you to want me  
If it's just for a day_

_It isn't fair for you to thrill me  
Why do you do the things you do  
It isn't fair for you to fill me  
With those dreams that can't come true, dear_

_Why is it that you came into my life  
And made it complete  
You gave me just a taste of high life  
If this is love then I repeat_

_It isn't fair for you to taunt me  
How can you make me care this way  
It isn't fair for you to want me  
If it's just for today_

_My darling, it isn't fair_

* * *

"I thought you'd still be here," a male voice stated in the silence following the song. His eyes still shut, Charles flinched at the sudden sound. Immediately he opened his eyes and glared in the direction of the voice. It was B.J. Hunnicutt.

"How long have you been standing there?" Winchester asked, looking around suspiciously.

"Since the second verse or so," Hunnicutt admitted. "I couldn't sleep. It's weird being in the Swamp with neither of my bunkmates there; the baseline of snoring isn't there to fall asleep to."

Winchester turned to him, removing his hands from his pockets and crossing his arms across his chest.

"Have you nothing better to do than spend your time spying on me?"

"I wasn't spying on you, Charles; I just heard the music and walked right in. That's a good song—I think it came out right around the beginning of the war. It's Don Cornell; am I right?"

"This jukebox has been sitting here since before my arrival," Charles muttered irritably, pointing at the machine. "Certainly you've heard every tune on it dozens of times—don't play coy with me."

"Not that particular song so much," Hunnicutt replied, cocking his head.

"If you must know, Hunnicutt, I was in the mood for Sammy Kaye and his Orchestra. I haven't the slightest inclination for the vocal accompaniment."

Hunnicutt shook his head, grinning at his bunkmate.

"It isn't fair for you to lie to me, you know."

Charles's eyes went wide at the remark. B.J. could only smile knowingly.

* * *

"Goodnight, Captain."

Margaret stood by her room door with key in hand as Hawkeye gawked at her.

"You know, Margaret, I won the free room service, so if you'd like, you can join—"

"I just want to go to sleep. This whole day has been a disaster."

"What are you talking about?" Hawkeye replied, concern on his face. "We're here, aren't we? No delay on our flight or loss of life or limb. The only bad thing that happened was your ripping your lotus."

"I wasn't about to spend ten minutes picking it apart," she remarked. "And really, I don't care how smoothly our trip went. The fact still remains that tomorrow, I have to say goodbye to my father forever."

"You'll see him again someday, Margaret. I'm sure Father Mulcahy would agree with me."

She gave him a dour smile and turned to face the door, putting her key into the slot.

"Aren't you hungry?" Hawkeye asked, putting his hand on her shoulder. "C'mon, Margaret; I got the free room service. I'm right across the hall, for God's sakes. What harm will it do for you to get a bite to eat? You need to keep up your strength. I even nabbed a bottle of scotch from the Swamp."

"Did you take that from Charles?" she muttered.

"Actually, he gave it to me as a going-away present," he replied, clearly joking. Margaret rolled her eyes.

"I'm more tired than I am hungry," she responded.

"Well, you can't turn your back on one of them. They're both equally important, Margaret."

"Ha," she deadpanned. "Watch me."

"Come on," he said, draping an arm over her and gently pulling her hand away from her door. "Just a sandwich or something. It'll be on me. Just make sure not to bite me while you're eating it."

Suddenly she froze in place, her face twisted with annoyance.

"Where's that music coming from?" she murmured.

"See?" he commented right back. "You couldn't fall asleep anyway, with that music. Wanna go check it out?"

"I want to sleep."

"Through that racket?" he replied.

"You forget that we are stationed at a M*A*S*H with helicopters and trucks in and out all day and night. I'm used to noises."

"Yeah, but not to _Stardust_," he remarked. "Come on, Margaret; the night is young."

"I saw them downstairs, all dressed up. We'd look stupid in these dirty fatigues."

"We have our dress uniforms," he replied with a wink. "May as well get some positive use out of them."

She looked amused and yet perplexed.

"You'd be willing to wear your dress uniform without being physically forced?"

"For you, Margaret, anything."

"Well, this is certainly a surprise," she muttered, looking flustered. "Fine—we can go downstairs, but just for a bit. Let me get dressed."

He smiled toothily at her, clearly thrilled by her agreeing to his idea.

"I'd rather you get _un_dressed."

* * *

**Thanks to hippiechick19 and GetOnTheIce! If it weren't for your feedback, this would've been posted much later. The chapter following this is very H/M! Here's a preview:**

Margaret immediately grabbed Hawkeye's hand, leading him towards the dance floor.

"Oh, so you want to dance," he muttered, amused by her boldness. Several people looked up at them in surprise and also to admire the good-looking Army Medical Corps couple.

"Isn't that why we got all dressed up?" she replied. "Come on, this is the last time I'll be happy for at least 2400 hours."


	25. The Domino Effect

**CHAPTER 25 – THE DOMINO EFFECT **

After disappearing into her room for fifteen minutes or so, Margaret stood in the middle of the hotel hallway waiting on a still absent Hawkeye Pierce. Her hair had been arranged in soft waves around her face, her makeup refreshed and her brown blouse and skirt freshly pressed. She had even shined her major's gold oak leaf pin and caduceus pin.

"Hawkeye, are you coming out of there today?" she muttered, knocking on his door for the third time.

"One more second," he called out in reply.

"How can you be taking longer than me? Just throw the uniform on, Hawkeye," she fumed. "It's going to be over soon downstairs."

"Don't worry; I still hear the music through the floor," he called out. Several seconds passed in which she heard a sharp intake of breath. "Okay, now I'm ready."

It was then that Hawkeye opened the door in such a way that his entire body was revealed to her at one time. His uniform had been starched and his tie was perfectly straight, his collar pressed and patent brown leather shoes shined. She could tell by the dot of blood at his throat that he'd even shaved. He was even wearing his folded brown hat, which sat proudly upon his shiny dark hair.

"Oh my goodness, Hawkeye," she muttered, taken aback. "You look so—"

"So hairless—I know," he replied, rubbing his chin. "My face is like a baby's bottom and well, this hat is covering—"

"You look so… good," she interrupted.

"I was just about to say the same for you," he replied with a grin. "That skirt really becomes you. You need to show off those gams now and then—preferably with your feet up in the air."

"What are you saying, Captain?" she asked as innocently as possible while batting her eyelashes, very much loving the flattery.

"I'm saying that I can't be sure you've never looked better than you do right now until I get a closer look at you—a full body exam."

"Ha, you kidder," she replied coyly.

"I mean it, Margaret. I could be out of these clothes in a second if you'd say the word."

"You hate wearing that uniform as it is. Getting you out of it is no big feat."

"Well, you know what they say about guys with big feet," he began. "And if you don't, I can show you. Just say the word and I'll confirm the rumor."

"What about the music?" she asked. He flashed her a naughty grin.

"Don't worry; we'd have no problem drowning it out."

"No, what I mean is, are we going downstairs?" she inquired, her self-esteem skyrocketing from his compliments. This was like a dream. Never had she remembered Hawkeye looking so attractive. His dark blue eyes sparkled, his neatly combed hair shone, and he looked like quite the gentleman. Only she and the nurses of the 4077th knew better than to actually call him a gentleman.

"Of course, Major," he said with a knowing smile, extending his elbow to her. She slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow as they strode down the hallway arm in arm.

* * *

Couples danced in the ballroom of the Lotus Hotel to the sounds of Patti Page's 'Tennessee Waltz' as the handsome couple strode towards the bar in the back of the room.

"Never thought I'd hear the 'Tennessee Waltz' in Tokyo," Hawkeye remarked, as he paid for two glasses of wine.

"I never thought I'd be anything but unconscious right now," she replied.

"I think it was the fatigues that fatigued you," he commented.

Margaret turned to watch the dozens of couples dancing to the beautiful song as Hawkeye made small talk. She was glad to clear her head and feel like a woman again in such a formal setting. As they made their way for a table, she addressed her well-dressed date.

"Look at you; you're even more dolled up than I am," Margaret said.

"What are you talking about?" Hawkeye replied. "_Dulled_ up is more like it. You look like a vision and I look like any of the other boring schmucks walking around tonight. I almost confused myself with one of the guys standing at the bar."

"You mean, that guy you randomly started talking to back there?"

"Yeah," he replied, grinning at her sheepishly. "I thought I was talking to myself."

They sat down at a small table to watch the well-dressed couples, some military, some civilian, spin around on the dance floor to the tune. It was far too late to join the dance now and so they sat in relative silence waiting for what was to come.

As soon as they'd finished their wine, a waltz streamed through the speakers and Margaret immediately grabbed Hawkeye's hand, leading him towards the dance floor.

"Oh, so you want to dance," he muttered, amused by her boldness. Several people looked up at them in surprise and also to admire the good-looking Army Medical Corps couple.

"Isn't that why we got all dressed up?" she replied. "Come on, this is the last time I'll be happy for at least 2400 hours."

"Ha, 2400 hours," he said with a chuckle. "You've been in the Army far too long," Hawkeye muttered. "Why not have a branch of the military in _you_, for once? I recommend a Captain."

"Hold your tongue," she cautioned. "This is a formal occasion."

"I'd rather _you_ hold my tongue," he remarked. "Your mouth would be the best place for it."

She rolled her eyes and smiled at him, the usual reply to his flirtatious comments, and they stood together on the dance floor awkwardly standing beside each other.

The song had a minor intonation and was a rather sad-sounding tune that was very popular the year before. Even so, Margaret was all smiles, her teeth all out on display as she stood in the midst of the dance floor with Hawkeye, surrounded by couples beginning to waltz in turn.

"You like this song?" Hawkeye muttered, looking unsure, as the first words of Doris Day emerged through the arrangement. She positioned her hands correctly on his body and he followed suit. She placed her face at the juncture of Hawkeye's shoulder and neck as they began waltzing.

_Domino, Domino, you're an angel that heaven has sent me,  
Domino, Domino, you're a devil designed to torment me,  
When your heart must know that I love you so,  
Tell me why, tell me why, why do you make me cry, Domino_

"Eh, I'll bet you anything that Domino fell for her immediately after she fell for him," Hawkeye murmured, flashing Margaret a cute little grin.

Margaret swooned at his joke. Even so, she felt a bit melancholy, for she couldn't help but tell herself the name Domino was interchangeable with "Hawkeye Pierce" in the context of Doris Day's lyrics. The handsome dark-haired surgeon had hurt her badly when he'd spurned her advances that fateful night in the abandoned hut, but she hadn't completely forgotten her feelings; she'd merely buried them in her psyche. He was charismatic, funny, and a talented surgeon and yet, that little mistake of a fling had forever prevented them from getting any closer.

In Hawkeye's well-dressed arms, the light scent of his masculine aftershave lingering on him, Margaret recalled her very deep feelings towards the surgeon. His lanky frame was more solid and far stronger than she would have originally presumed. Why had he never made an effort to continue from those beginnings of a relationship before that drunken stupor from the night before this? They would have been inseparable; she would have made him feel like the luckiest man in the world. And he could have made her the luckiest woman in the world for her snagging such a catch.

_Domino, Domino, won't you tell me you'll never desert me?  
Domino, Domino, if you stay I don't care how you hurt me,  
Fate has made you so, you can't change, I know,  
You can't change, though you try, but then neither can I, Domino_

Instead Hawkeye had begun pursuing the next nurse mere days after that fling so long ago, the sight of the giggly pair a direct blow to her heart. Just like that, he'd moved on from her, just like he always had with everyone. By keeping their one-night affair under wraps, he had to behave as usual—which meant bedding down with yet another woman. He couldn't settle down and be satisfied to be in her arms alone, and she wasn't satisfied sharing him with others, and so it had never gone any further than that isolated evening.

"What kind of name is Domino, anyway?" he murmured to her. "What, is she singing to a Dalmatian?"

Laughter bubbled up inside of her and she buried her face in his shoulder to stifle the guffaw. It was bizarre to imagine the song being about a dog. She gave him a playful little slap to his shoulder and they continued to waltz, not missing a beat.

_Just one look in your eyes and I melt with desire,  
Just a touch of your hands and I burst into fire,  
And my whole world fills with music when I'm lost in your embrace _

Hawkeye wasn't quite as tall as Major Winchester, but he was far taller than Frank Burns and sturdily built. She'd always had her eye on the raven-haired surgeon and at this moment— this picture in time—she was in heaven. Surprisingly, the effect his gentlemanly appearance had on her was far stronger than she'd have ever thought possible. She'd always set her sights on the rogue men, the burly silent types who always had a sheen of dirt to their faces and a lack of care in their appearance, Sergeant Rizzo a noted exception. This attraction to such a different kind of man scared her, because not only was Hawkeye _not_ the silent type, but he was also at the moment impeccably dressed and groomed. It was almost as if her short time with Major Winchester had altered her perceptions of what made a man attractive, for Major Winchester _was_ the quintessential gentleman.

It was then, during the lyrics, that Hawkeye pulled himself slightly away from her so that he could look down at her, his blue eyes locking on hers. She closed her eyes for a moment in utter bliss at his intense gaze, wanting him to sweep her up in his arms, the future be damned.

"Margaret, do you wanna—"

"Shh," she replied, her smile intoxicating to him. He promptly quieted, unnerved by the gaze of pure unadultered love she was directing at him. He wondered if it was a reflection of his own gaze, and felt fear welling up inside. Why was she so unabashedly expressing this kind of emotion with him when she had insisted she would never be unfaithful to Charles? The look she was giving him alone at this moment was a direct offense against Major Winchester, a look that poured out every kind of romantic emotion that could be conjured in the depths of her ice blue eyes. She was falling for him. The question was, was he falling for her in turn? Was this 'Domino' song predicting their future?

Margaret looked unbelievably feminine and petite in her blouse and skirt, her heels clicking on the wooden dance floor, her hair in blonde cascades around her freshly made-up face, her hairstyle softening her jaw line. Her lips looked particularly kissable right about now, with a barely perceptible layer of glossy lipstick outlining their fullness. He'd all but forgotten the physical violence she doled out time after time, the shrillness of her voice when giving a command. Right now she was a particularly beautiful soft woman in his arms, a curvaceous woman gazing at him with astounding intensity, so much that he had to remind himself to breathe. He found himself wanting her so badly that it scared him.

_But I know that you're fickle and I'm not misled,  
Each attractive new face that you see turns your head,  
And it scares me that tomorrow, someone else may take my place_

After their gaze became almost too intense to bear, Hawkeye once again pulled Margaret against him so that they could no longer look at each other. A frown appeared on her face as she took in the lyrics. No matter what she and Hawkeye ended up doing this evening, someone else would certainly take her place, she thought with an inward scoff. Before her father was even in the ground, Hawkeye would be looking around for some other woman to tease. She'd never be satisfied in a relationship with Hawkeye Pierce. Firstly, he couldn't be serious for more than a minute at a time and most importantly, he was the classic commitment-phobe, a man to brazenly hit on anything resembling a female. She did wager, however, that no other nurse of the 4077th had danced with Hawkeye in his dress uniform. She had this moment to cherish forever in her heart, the night she waltzed with Hawkeye to a biographical tune. If only he knew how well the song described him, he probably would have skipped this dance.

_Domino, Domino, you're an angel that heaven has sent me,  
Domino, Domino, you're a devil designed to torment me,  
When your heart must know that I love you so,  
Tell me why, tell me why, why do you make me cry, Domino_

Never did Margaret Houlihan expect that on the eve of her father's funeral, she'd be waltzing with a sharp-dressed Hawkeye Pierce in the ballroom of the Lotus Hotel, a mere twenty-four hours after she'd taken out her frustrations on an all-too-willing Charles Winchester. How could life be so unpredictable?

_Domino, Domino, I'll forgive anything that you do,  
Domino, Domino, nothing matters if I have you._

As the dance ended, Hawkeye gave her a little bow, scrunching up his face with an impatient grin. She smiled back at him, his impatience not lost on her.

"So how about that room service?" he finally said, feeling a bit light-headed from all the dancing they'd done. "I'd like to further my lotus-opening skills."

She rolled her eyes at his blatant innuendo.

Dancing and dressing up was not something Hawkeye normally partook in. He was more likely to enjoy a romantic rendezvous in the minefield or in the supply room with a few stolen candles as the sole source of light and him the sole entertainment for the evening, his words leading his date ever-closer to that most intimate of embraces. He was more likely to do the horizontal tango than this fancy waltzing, and he was far better at it. Besides, he wanted Margaret so badly that it was beginning to physically pain him.

"Alright, Captain Pierce," she said with a nod. "Let us retire for the evening."

With that, she hooked her arm in his and they strode out of the ballroom.

* * *

"Wait—are you telling me you served in Germany?"

"Got over there in '45, right before Hitler offed himself," she said with a nod. She'd since finished up a pair of sandwiches Hawkeye had had delivered to the room as well as two glasses of pilfered scotch and was finding herself to be extremely relaxed. They sat in two puffy armchairs in Hawkeye's suite, an upscale room with beautiful black and white area rugs and a definite kind of mood lighting. He'd since finished off his third martini and sat gawking at her as she spoke so casually of her dangerous station.

"Did you have any casualties?"

"We were instructed to aid the Allied forces only. I was just a lieutenant at that point, so I was only able to assist in about a third of the casualties that came through us. Mostly Russians; they were like a human battering ram, you know? Pushing the Axis westward."

"Wow—back in '45 I was in Guam. Bet I saw a lot less action than you did, though I did patch up more Japanese than I ever thought possible. Sometimes I felt like I was fighting for the other side. Probably how I was actually able to get the free room service here."

"Could be," she said with a shrug. "Maybe someone recognized you."

At seeing a smile flicker across Margaret's face, Hawkeye was encouraged.

"See, Margaret? There's no need to be so wound up all the time. Relax. No casualties, no Mess Tent, just a nice cushy bed and room service."

"Well, room service for you, at least."

"I wasn't blessed with these surgically precise hands for nothing," he replied with a smile, showing off his hands. "Opening paper loti is my true forte."

"And definitely not mine—ha, that reminds me of a funny story," she replied. "During the time I lived at Fort Ord, my dad brought home a dog. It was such a stupid idea—of course we'd have to get rid of it when he got transferred again. It was a little thing, some kind of mutt—we called it Sarge. Would tear up my mother's attempts at gardening at the very first sign of a flower. It wasn't until we moved to Fort Benning that we were able to even have flowers in our yard. That's only because we arrived there in the spring, right after the last family moved out. After we left Fort Ord, my mother never let us have a dog again." She shrugged. "I guess Sarge's flower-tearing skills rubbed off on me."

"My dad never was much for gardening," Hawkeye replied. "After Mom died, he had to take over the job of both parents, and being a doctor and a gardener on top of that would have been too much."

Margaret gave him a look of surprise and pity.

"You mean, you never had any flowers in your yard?"

"One. My mom had planted a peony before she died and it came back every year after that. At first I hated it because I felt it was mocking me, outliving my mother. Eventually, though, I looked forward to smelling those big flowers. The smell reminded me of my mom's perfume. Peonies were her favorite."

"Oh, Hawkeye…." Margaret murmured, full of sympathy. He wasn't finished speaking.

"Really though, a plant can die every year and come right back the next spring and a person is… just gone. Why can't we be perennials?"

"I know," Margaret murmured, looking melancholy, her head resting on her hands. "It isn't fair."

"It isn't. And even so, we're still hoping it'll happen. I mean, we bury our dead—just like a bulb—but they don't come back in the spring."

When Hawkeye looked over at her, tears were streaming from Margaret's eyes. She was silently crying, wiping her tears away as subtly as possible. Hawkeye stood up instinctively and walked over to her chair, kneeling down in front of it as he gazed up at her with an earnest expression on his face.

"I'm sorry, Margaret. I shouldn't say things like that on the eve of a funeral. That was stupid of me."

She wiped away more tears, looking embarrassed.

"It's not your fault. I just don't think it's truly hit me yet. I looked up to that man. My father was my basis for my entire existence. What the hell am I going to do now that he's dead?"

"I'm gonna tell you what you're gonna do, Margaret; you're gonna keep living your life. You're gonna do your job in Korea and when the war is over you're gonna go back to the States, settle down, and have some kids. Maybe you'll work as a civilian nurse, maybe not. Your life is yours and always has been."

"But—"

"Your life was never your father's," he interrupted. "You live it as you want to, not according to the standards of someone else."

"I love the Army," she replied, sniffling. "It's been my family for so long."

"Well, that's good," he said. "But don't love it just because you're expected to."

"In case you haven't realized, there are aspects of my life that are totally my own: my marriage and divorce to Donald, my affair with Frank—"

"And Charles," Hawkeye added quickly. She looked at him with puzzlement.

"I would hardly call that an affair," she retorted, scoffing.

"Why's that? Because he's not married?"

"No, Hawkeye. Because I'm not really _with him_ with him. I needed to vent and he just happened to be there at the time. If there was anything there, it's gone now."

Hawkeye was intrigued over the statement. So she was changing her story yet again. Is that why she so unabashedly gazed into his eyes this evening? Had she used the façade of a relationship with Charles to make him jealous? Well, it had definitely worked.

"Oh, really," he replied in as unaffected a voice as possible.

"Yes, Hawkeye. Do you honestly think I could settle down with the likes of him? He's far too pompous for my taste."

Pierce swallowed at her reply.

"Is that all?"

"Why do you care so much?" she shot. He got up off his haunches, effectively putting him eye to eye with the blonde nurse, his expression as serious as she'd ever seen it.

"I just do, Margaret."

"Oh, is that so?" she replied in a low voice, smiling at him. He grinned right back at her.

"Would I lie to you?"

"You better not," she muttered lowly. The look he was giving her was irresistible, his blue eyes earnest but mouth smirking naughtily. She found herself leaning forward as he mimicked the motion, their lips uniting in a blissfully deep kiss.

* * *

**Thanks to hippiechick19 and GetOnTheIce for their feedback, which pushed this next chapter out very quickly! Now, as for the rest of you readers, I want to know what you think, so don't be shy! I've written almost 100,000 words so far for your reading enjoyment and I want to hear your 10 words or so in reply! Do you like the H/M? Do you have any other comments? Please—even if it's a word, even if it's anonymous, I'd really like to hear from you!**

**NOTE: The idea that Hawkeye was stationed in Guam came from the Season 2 episode "Mail Call" in which he indicated the Korean War was his second war (which would mean that WWII was his first)(and just as a fun fact, my grandfather was stationed in Guam, my other grandfather in Japan)**


	26. Insatiable

**CHAPTER 26 – INSATIABLE**

The last hour or so had been much like a dream, Hawkeye decided—a very good dream, in fact. First there had been the kissing—the enveloping of his mouth in Margaret's full lips, an activity which made him weak in the knees. That had been followed by the obligatory strip session in which he was able to feast his eyes upon Margaret Houlihan's voluptuous body in all its glory, quickly followed up by some heavy petting and collapsing onto the giant hotel bed. From then on, it had been a whirlwind of sheer pleasure, with Margaret's expertise in the art of lovemaking stealing every quip away from him and leaving him shuddering and completely unable to make a single intelligible sound. Margaret, on the other hand, yelled his name loud and clear as she took control of the situation, reducing Hawkeye Pierce to do no more than breathe with quivery breaths as his body responded to her with astonishing need.

After the third lovemaking session, Margaret lie atop his body, her hot breath on his face. He was fully spent and more than satisfied with the turnout of tonight. Now all he needed to do was take a long shower and curl up in some clean sheets. This evening had been perfect but now it was over.

"You up for an encore?"

Hawkeye Pierce opened his eyes to look into Margaret Houlihan's blue eyes only inches from his own, her hair a mess as it framed her blushing face.

"I thought you said you were tired," he replied, putting a hand to his sweaty forehead.

"Not anymore, Hawkeye. Come on—I could go all night."

"That makes one of us," he replied, a bit annoyed by the fact that she hadn't rolled off of him yet. It was difficult to breathe with such a weight on his lanky frame. The pair lay beneath the covers in a sweaty post-coital sandwich.

"I gave you ten minutes; isn't that enough? Are you telling me you can't—"

"That's what I'm telling you, Margaret. I don't know how it worked the first two times, but I'm sure it won't happen again."

She blinked at him then, using her hands to hold her upper body off of his. To do this, she dug the heels of her palms into his shoulders. He sighed, rolling his eyes at the pressure she was exerting on his chest. The nurse noticed his irritated expression and her face fell.

"Was it not good?"

"Oh, it was good, Margaret; the best," he said, struggling to breathe. "You really are a tiger; you know that?"

The blonde nurse grinned at him seductively, enjoying the compliment.

"You really think so?"

"I know so," he replied, his eyes heavily lidded as he smiled at her. "You really earned your stripes."

He wasn't lying when he told her she was the best—most of the time, the nurses just lie there and let him do all the work. They were all too scared to make any noises during their trysts on the compound, but Margaret, on the other hand, didn't hold back. Though his time with Margaret had been nothing short of amazing—it was frankly a miracle that he had lasted through three marathon sessions. Attempting to start another one might lead to embarrassment and failure of the machinery that so far had worked unbelievably well with Margaret's body.

"Just one more and then I'll let you sleep," she said. "I want to wake up the whole floor."

"I think you woke up all of Tokyo," he replied. "They're probably hiding out in bomb shelters as we speak. Yet another reason for them to fear Americans."

"You're so funny," she said to him, batting her eyelashes in a kind of swoon.

"So I've been told," he replied in a monotone. She kissed her finger and touched it to his lips. This made him want to sigh. Why did she have to get so sappy so quickly? He liked the tiger in her that demanded certain acts, that voiced her enjoyment of those things that he did well. He didn't like this typical insecure, clingy woman side of her. She put her face close to his and continued to speak.

"Well, since they're already awake, one more won't—"

"You know, I never figured you to be so—insatiable, Margaret," he remarked, too exhausted to put up a fight. "Just gimme a couple more minutes, okay? One more and then we go to sleep."

"I probably should go back down to the front desk and cancel my room reservation," she said, a big toothy smile on her face. "No use paying for it if I'm not going to stay there."

"What do you mean?" he replied, smacking his lips together. "Aren't you going to sleep over there?"

"I thought I could stay here with you," she murmured, giving his shoulder a little squeeze.

"I think as long as you're here, neither of us will be getting any sleep tonight," he replied, giving her a strained smile. "Besides, you're used to your privacy, Margaret—a tent all to yourself. You don't want to wake up next to a big snoring man who'll hog the sheets and—"

"It's only for one night, and we've been waiting a long time for this to—"

"Tomorrow's going to be a long day," he replied quickly. "You need to keep up your strength, which isn't easy when you're sappy—I mean, _sapping_ it all here."

"But you love me," she blurted. She watched his face intently. He hesitated a moment too long and she was crushed.

"Fine," she muttered coldly, a frown on her face. "I guess you got a little too drunk to remember all that you said last night."

Hawkeye grimaced as Margaret slipped off of him, her knee digging into his inner thigh during the process. She no longer looked happy.

"No, I do, Margaret. I meant it then and I mean it now," he said, watching her as she half-sat, half-knelt at the end of the mattress.

"You do _what_, Hawkeye?" she retorted.

"What I said the other night," he replied after a moment of confusion. "You know that."

"Oh, do I?" she muttered bitterly. "Look at you; you can't even say it again. Ugh, I should have known."

He gestured to her. "Come back over here."

She lifted an eyebrow, her body now covered in half of the blanket.

"To sleep?"

He fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"To sleep, perchance to _dream_, even," he replied, conceding to her desire to stay with him overnight. "But first, let's get showers so we don't get stuck together like a pair of earthworms."

"Shower_sss_?" she said, enunciating the final _s_, her eyebrow still raised.

"Yeah—it's not like we're not trying to conserve water or anything," he muttered carefully in reply, his brow knitted with concern. His voice took on a surprisingly bitter tone as he continued. "I'm sure the Lotus Hotel has enough hot water to last until the end of the war... and why shouldn't they? No one needs hot water more than hotel guests."

"You're just looking for every reason to get away from me," she blurted, feeling completely overwhelmed with hurt and anxiety. "What a fool I was to believe you meant what you said the other day!"

"I did, Margaret, but—"

"I'll be going back to my room now. That dance tonight really summed it up, you know that?" she groaned.

"I'm not sure what you mean. The dance was—"

"Forget it," she muttered.

A frown now plastered on her face, she sat up in bed, leaving Hawkeye completely uncovered. His eyes wide at suddenly being exposed, he grabbed a pillow by his head and placed it over his pelvic area. She grabbed her dress uniform by the end of the bed and strode over to the bathroom with a train of bedsheets dragging behind her. Before words could materialize in his mouth, she had pulled her bulky cover-up into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

* * *

"Wh—what are you—ugh…" Charles murmured as he was roughly roused from his sleep. He blinked indignantly before his eyes registered the face of B.J. Hunnicutt.

"Charles, you were yelling out in your sleep. Are you okay?"

"What?" Charles muttered, his face blanching and then reddening with embarrassment. "I don't talk in my sleep."

"That's true," Hunnicutt said. "You were yelling."

"Yelling what?"

"Well, I definitely heard the word Margaret in there. Most of it was just a long moan—and then you were whimpering. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?"

Charles's eyes went wide at the Hunnicutt's vivid account of such an embarrassing occurrence. He couldn't remember if he'd had a dream, but Hunnicutt wouldn't lie about something like that.

"Wh-what time is it?" Winchester muttered, rubbing his eyes, his voice still groggy from sleep.

"Three," Hunnicutt replied. "Are you gonna be okay? If you are, I'm going back to bed."

"Why'd you bother waking me then?" Charles muttered. "You were already awake, so why disturb my sleep?"

"Are you kidding me? If that wasn't disturbing your sleep, I don't know what _would_ do it."

* * *

"Aren't you ever gonna talk to me again?" Hawkeye said, nudging Margaret as they stood in their dress uniforms in the church. After their series of encounters the night before, she'd quickly redressed in his bathroom and stole away to her room without another word. The morning of the funeral, he'd woken up to find that she hadn't bothered to come by his room and get him up. He'd caught up with her just before she could step out of the hotel.

If he'd been in her good graces, she would have noticed how very distinguished Hawkeye looked in his dress uniform with pins perfectly straight, his face clean-shaven and hair neatly combed once again. His chocolate-colored jacket was free of any fuzz or wrinkles, a matching brown tie neatly hanging around his neck, his khaki pants freshly pressed and brown shoes buffed to a shine. It was very rare for anyone to see this version of Hawkeye, let alone two days in a row, and she was completely ignoring it.

At Hawkeye's question, she merely blinked, staring straight forward.

"Come on, Margaret; I can't take this treatment for a whole day. You're the only person I can talk to."

"Quiet down!" a woman hissed from the pew behind them.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, leaning down towards her ear, his smooth cheek skimming her face as he did so. He'd even bothered to shave this morning though he was running very late, in an attempt to please her. "Can't we just remember the good times? They were really good times, you know. The best. I mean it."

Again she ignored him. He lifted a hand up and turned her head to face his. Scoffing, she pulled away.

"Margaret, don't make me beg for your forgiveness in front of all these people," he murmured. "I can do it, you know."

"You will not," she commanded. "This is my father's day, not yours. If you don't want to listen to me, just go home."

"Home? You mean, the Swamp? Thanks, but I'd rather eat paper."

"Oh, is that right?" she snarled. "I could have the hotel concierge make you a hot dog."

"Ha ha, very funny," Hawkeye replied with an impatient smile. "So—will you accept my apology?"

"Just shut up or you're gonna be sorry."

He shrugged, muttering under his breath.

"I just told you; I already am."

* * *

"Come on, kids; we gotta get the snow and ice off of the compound. We need to restore our triage."

Winchester wrinkled his nose at Colonel Potter's request, the frigid air turning his nose and ears red. He had pulled his old red and black toboggan cap over his head, but it wasn't helping with the tingling sensations in his face.

"Major, your humble shovel," Klinger said, unexpectedly shoving the handle of the tool into his hands. He scowled at the company clerk as Klinger proceeded to hand a shovel to Hunnicutt.

"And what of the enlisted men?" Winchester remarked, glaring at Colonel Potter. "Is it only the surgeons who have to freeze their fingers off?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm. "_Very_ appropriate, I must say."

"The enlisted men are gonna be loading up the trucks with the snow so it can be dumped elsewhere."

"Do I not have a choice in the matter?"

"Sure you do; you can chuck snow up into the truck if you want," Colonel Potter replied. "Either you shovel the snow into a pile or you chuck it into the air."

"How much snow could the third Chuck chuck, if the third Chuck could chuck snow?" Hunnicutt remarked, smiling at the colonel.

"The third?" Winchester said, staring confusedly at B.J. "Oh, right… my name suffix."

"Suffix yourself up with a job already," Potter told the tall surgeon. "Chuck or scoop."

"I shall scoop, merely to avoid the deluge of jokes I'd otherwise receive."

"Nurse Campbell, Chuck's in scoop!" Klinger yelled out to a random brunette nurse. Potter and Hunnicutt laughed heartily over the company clerk's pun. Still unable to figure it out, Winchester scrunched up his face in distaste at Klinger.

"That may be the worst excuse for a pun that my ears have ever had the misfortune to hear," he stated, glaring at the shorter man. "Obviously you were attempting to be clever, but I'm still failing to comprehend the drivel that spewed from your mouth."

"Oh, _pun_ your ears!" Hunnicutt called out, a big cheesy grin on his face. Charles rolled his eyes.

"I was wrong," Winchester muttered. "_That_ was the worst."

* * *

"I can't believe she picked out that color casket," Margaret murmured, rolling her eyes as she and Hawkeye Pierce sat on a bench at the airport in Tokyo, which was essentially a drafty airplane hangar made entirely of corrugated steel. They'd been sitting there for more than an hour now, awaiting a flight that was already forty-five minutes late. Margaret had wanted to avoid small-talk but it was being forced upon her, what with the "Thank goodness for the flag draped over it, because if I've had to stare at that shimmery brown any longer, I would have puked."

"I didn't think it was that bad."

"Of course _you_ wouldn't; Nancy picked it out, after all. Boy, she had you in awe. You do realize my sister is married, don't you?"

"I couldn't help it," he replied, shrugging. "It was like I was standing between two Margarets. The uncommonly good looks, the blonde hair, the identical frowns, even the way mascara runs down your cheeks—you two could be sisters."

"Now you're making fun of how we cried?" she exclaimed, temper ever-rising. "How _dare_ you!"

"Of course I'm not making fun," he replied, holding his hands up in surrender. "I just couldn't keep my eyes off the daughters Houlihan. You didn't actually expect me to stare at that _unsightly_ brown casket the whole time, did you?"

"Sorry, folks," the P.A. suddenly blared, startling the pair. "There was a situation on the incoming flight. It was significantly delayed but it should be landing any time now."

"Ugh, I can't wait to get back to Korea," Margaret muttered in response to the announcement. "Never thought I'd say it, but it's true."

"Aww, Margaret; it couldn't have been all that bad. Why don't we stay an extra night and I'll make it up to you in spades? And if you thought my heart wasn't in it before, it will be tonight."

"Yeah, right," she responded, bitterness marring her voice. "Just so you can turn me down again and treat me like an itch you can't get rid of. If I was smarter, I would've decked you last night."

"Join the club," he muttered, sighing disappointedly. "What can I say? I messed up. I was tired—tired and a bit overwhelmed. It wasn't you; it was me."

"Spare me your lines, Captain. You were _tired_; is that right? Ha, bouncing off the walls only half an hour before! As you'll recall, _I_ was the one ready to cash in for the night."

"That's because I was running on carbs, Margaret. Very quickly metabolized, especially while burning so many calories."

"Forget it, buster. You had your chance and you blew it. You dumped me like a bad habit."

"You're wrong," he muttered, feeling a wave of shame wash over him. "I just get so—overwhelmed—"

"You mentioned that," she interrupted, her voice dripping with irony.

"No, let me explain," he said, putting his hand on hers for a moment before she jerked it away. "It's just—there's so many feelings there and I don't know how to handle them. While it's all fun and games, it's easy then, but then I'm lost afterwards. I just—I don't know how to handle my feelings for you."

"Oh, is that right? And kicking me out of your room was the best way to handle those feelings?"

"I wasn't trying to kick you out," he mumbled. "I just thought—you're so used to your tent and the ways of the M.A.S.H., and I wasn't going to force—"

"Are you kidding? I'm _too_ used to my tent. I'm sick of it, actually. Do you think I like going to sleep alone and waking up alone every single damn day of my life? Do you think I liked spending my entire marriage alone here in Korea?"

"Well, I—"

"Don't patronize me, Captain. I only ask that when we get back, you keep your big mouth shut. This never happened."

He shot her a look of sarcasm and hurt.

"Yeah, and I was there when it didn't."

From within the hangar, Hawkeye and Margaret could hear the roar of a landing plane, a bizarrely loud squeal as the landing gear skidded across the concrete runway, the grinding sound of metal on metal.

"Well, that doesn't sound right," Margaret murmured to herself, her eyes wide at the amplified sound.

"No, it doesn't," Hawkeye agreed. "Lemme go ask the announcer what's going on. If the plane was damaged in some way, there's no way we'll be getting out of here tonight."

"Ugh, please don't say that," she replied. A look of disappointment came to his face and he wordlessly strolled over to the announcer's desk.

"What just happened out there?" he asked the man, gesturing towards the airfield. The announcer was a stocky little staff sergeant with the name McLean on his uniform and was lounging against the wall with a big smile on his face, his feet propped up on the desk.

"A miraculous landing is what it was," the announcer replied, glancing up at the tall surgeon.

"What do you mean?" Hawkeye replied, squinting suspiciously. "Is something wrong with the plane?"

"Oh, no; nothing's wrong with the plane," McLean said. "The pilot had a heart attack and was out of commission. One of the boys flying along with him had to land the plane."

"Is the pilot gonna be okay?"

The announcer looked at him quizzically.

"Why do you ask?"

"I'm a doctor," Hawkeye replied, pointing to his medical corps pin. "I may be able to help him."

"Eh, I think it's too late for that," the announcer replied. "Sounds to me like he had a pretty serious heart attack. He may be gone already. Besides, we don't have medical supplies on hand here, even if he is still holding on."

Hawkeye didn't know what to say and stood in front of the desk, deep in thought.

"Don't worry, Sir," McLean said, breaking the thick silence, "there are other pilots in the hangar that will take over that flight to Seoul. We just had to wait on that plane to get here. You can have a seat and I'll let you know when the plane's ready to go again."

"How can you be so indifferent to the pilot's heart attack?" Hawkeye asked. "How can you sit here all smug and comfortable while a guy is possibly dying?"

"I'm not a doctor," McLean replied, "and there's nothing I can do for him that the other guys on that plane can't do. I feel bad for the guy but what I can do? Nothing."

Disgusted, Hawkeye turned away from the announcer's desk, his back hunched over as he strode back over to Margaret.

"What'd he say?" she murmured.

"Pilot had a heart attack. Another guy had to land the plane."

"Oh my God," she replied, a hand to her mouth. "Is he alright?"

Just then a group of army men ran into the hangar, their army boots clopping on the tarmac as they collectively toted a sweaty, heavyset man with his eyes shut and spittle running out of his mouth. Hawkeye and Margaret stood up at the sight, quickly striding towards the group as they laid the pilot down on a set of wooden skids.

"Is he still alive?" Hawkeye muttered, pushing aside several of the men and kneeling beside the skids. He could hear the man's shallow breaths and lifted the man's eyelid to find it was rolled back in his head. The man was swimming in and out of consciousness. Margaret was soon next to the surgeon on the floor.

"What are you doing, Captain?" one of the army men asked Hawkeye, noticing his captain's bars but ignorant of his name. "You can't—"

"I'm a surgeon," Hawkeye interrupted, glancing up briefly at the group that had formed around him. "If he's still alive I may be able to help him."

"I think he's too far gone for that," another man muttered. "He's been like this for the last half hour or so."

"Do you have nitroglycerin on hand?" Hawkeye asked, glancing up at the men. They just stared at him dumbly and frustrated him beyond belief. "Move out of the way for a second," the surgeon indicated, gesturing with his hand. "Lemme ask McLean."

The men moved as instructed and Hawkeye called out to the announcer.

"McLean, do you have any nitroglycerin on hand here?"

"Sorry, Captain; like I told you, we have no medical supplies. Just stuff for the planes."

"Well, planes can't fly themselves," Hawkeye called out bitterly. "The finest kind of planes will go down in flames without a human operator. Let this be a lesson to you. You should stock up, just in case."

"This has never happened before," McLean replied curtly.

"Well, what if this guy was you next time?" Hawkeye said, gesturing at the pilot on the skids. "What if you fell off that chair of yours and developed a brain hemorrhage?"

"Are you threatening me?" McLean retorted, the volume of his voice louder.

Rolling her eyes at the pointless exchange, Margaret instinctively took the dying pilot's hand, her finger on his fading pulse. She felt him squeeze her hand and her eyes went wide.

"You two, knock it off," she commanded, glaring at Hawkeye and then at McLean. "And step back, all of you," she added, looking up at the encircling army men above her. "He needs some peace and quiet." They did as directed, though Hawkeye lingered next to her, still kneeling by the man's side. "You too, Hawkeye," she added. He stared at her for a moment, dumbfounded by her request.

"Margaret, I might be able to help him," he murmured, glancing at the man's heaving chest.

He was met with a subtle shake of the head and a look of sadness on the nurse's face. At her certainty, he stood up and took several steps back from the pilot.

"If you can hear me, squeeze my hand," Margaret soothingly said to the pilot, her face close to his.

After a moment, she felt him squeeze and smiled broadly at him. He struggled to lift his heavy eyelids but was soon able to see the woman above him.

"It… hurts," he murmured, his voice barely discernable. "I saw… a light…."

"Now, don't overtax yourself," she replied gently, lifting her other hand and touching his ruddy face. "You need to relax."

"Marie," he stammered, gasping for breath.

It was then that she glanced at his lapel, at the name on it—Stevenson. His insignia indicated that he was a Lieutenant.

"My name is Margaret, Lieutenant Stevenson," she said with utmost tenderness. "Everything will be alright; you'll see."

"No," he replied. "I'm not gonna make it… Tell Marie…." At that, his voice trailed off, a grimace of pain on his face.

"Tell her what?" she asked him, stroking his hair soothingly.

"That I love her. That I should've married her."

"What do you mean, _should've_?" Margaret murmured, feeling a welling of emotion inside her. "It's never too late for that."

"She ended up marrying... someone else," Stevenson muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Promise me… you'll tell her."

Though he was standing several feet away, Hawkeye could hear the whole conversation between Margaret and the pilot. All this lieutenant could think about in his dying moments was regret over something he hadn't done.

"I let her go," Stevenson whispered, with the last ounce of strength he had left in his body. "I was so stupid…. Promise me you'll tell her…."

A vision came to Hawkeye then, of the M.A.S.H. unit being struck by enemy fire, of Margaret being the one lying on the ground, dying right before his eyes. Life was so precious; she could be taken from him at any time. Both he and Margaret weren't afraid to put their health or safety on the line to comfort or heal a sick patient, but when it came to their own mortality, he hadn't really thought about it or considered it. The main flesh wound he had from this damned war was shrapnel in the backside that Margaret had graciously removed on that fateful trip to the 8063rd.

It figured, that on a trip to a funeral, no less, Hawkeye would suddenly be made aware of the fragility of life. It hadn't occurred to him to consider such a thing, even after being stationed in a country ravaged by war and threatened by enemy fire and disease brought with the wounded soldiers. Several times they had had to flee the M.A.S.H. unit for safer grounds. He had been directly threatened by North Korean soldiers several times and that night in the abandoned hut with Margaret had been the closest he'd ever felt to dying.

Why had it not occurred to him before that he simply couldn't wait—that he simply shouldn't wait? Was he destined to whisper some impractical feat, some impossible promise, to a stranger who found him near death? Would regret be his final thought? Feeling his eyes welling up, he watched Margaret speak soothingly to the dying man, watched her promise the man that she'd tell Marie that he loved her and that he should've married her. It wouldn't be easy for her to keep that promise, but the wishes of a dying man could not be refused. He felt a single tear run down his cheek as he watched Margaret lean forward and close the eyes of Lieutenant Stevenson, planting a kiss on his forehead as the man breathed his last.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the depressing end of this chapter! Hopefully I can get another chapter in before Christmas, one that doesn't end so sadly! Thanks you, hippiechick19, mary, and GetOnTheIce, for your invaluable feedback!**


	27. Over Do and Overdue

**A/N: Sorry for the delayed update, guys! Thanks, hippiechick19, for your feedback! This story will be finished in 2 chapters or so, I think!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 27 – OVER DO AND OVERDUE**

"That's one hell of a snow cone, wouldn't ya say?" Klinger exclaimed, glancing up at the nearly 12-foot tall pile of snow amassed in the center of the compound, its base wider still. With gloved hands on hips, Colonel Potter squinted up at the mass of white, practically snowblind from the whiteness of it.

"You know what might be worthwhile?" Father Mulcahy offered, stepping forward with his shovel. "It's out of the roadway now; maybe we could just leave it where it is and shape it into a snowman."

"If you were to do it, Father, it would be a snow angel," Klinger replied, giving the priest a big smile.

"Very good, Klinger," Mulcahy said with a laugh. "I do think that we mustn't waste all our energy hauling it away when it's really not hurting anybody where it is. It could be quite the centerpiece for the 4077th."

"Ouch," Winchester muttered, stubbing his toe on the stones that lined the road in the M.A.S.H. The snow was almost completely cleared off of the triage area and still there was no sign of the jeep that would be bringing Hawkeye and Margaret back to the compound.

"What do you think, Major?" Mulcahy asked the grimacing man. "Would you like to help shape our pile into a snowman?"

"What—and take the chucking job away from our enlisted men and women?" he replied flatly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Not hardly."

"No need to swear, Major," Father Mulcahy cautioned.

"I said _chucking_, Father."

"Oh—right," Mulcahy replied, a sheepish smile on his face. "Sorry about that."

Though Charles felt a pang of regret at his treatment of Margaret Houlihan, his feelings towards Pierce were an entirely different story. The dark-haired man was a born opportunist, stealing away with Margaret in her most vulnerable of times, and he would not be welcoming him back. At least Charles hadn't forced her to do anything she didn't want to do—it was actually quite the opposite, and to a wholly unexpected effect. Now he would be able to observe the dynamics between Pierce and Houlihan to see if their relationship had changed during their short trip to Tokyo. There was no doubt that it had. The only question was, had Pierce gone and dug his own grave with his crude attempts at romance or had he successfully dissected through Margaret's layers and implanted himself in her heart?

Winchester scoffed at the last thought. It was he, Major Charles Emerson Winchester III, who was the heart specialist here—in a literal sense, at least.

* * *

At 1900 hours, Winchester, Hunnicutt, Colonel Potter, and Father Mulcahy sat at a table eating cubical cuisine strongly resembling _tikka masala_ but in actuality being the Army's excuse for meatloaf.

"Is there any chance we could track down Private Conway?" Father Mulcahy asked, in regards to the clumsy soldier who made an excellent temporary chef for the 4077th. "I miss him."

"If he was here, he'd be saving lives. I'll bet he's not doing that on the front lines," Potter remarked.

"What are you talking about?" Hunnicutt commented. "He's saving the lives of countless North Koreans."

Potter turned to Hunnicutt, a confused grimace on his face.

"How do you mean, Hunnicutt?"

"Is he a POW?" Winchester drawled, looking distressed. "A total shame that would be."

The mustached man smiled knowingly.

"You give him too much credit as a soldier, Charles. He's probably still up there, accidentally alerting the North Koreans to the presence of his battalion. That way, they have plenty of time to hide or shoot."

"Does anyone know when Hawkeye and Margaret will be back?" Father Mulcahy asked. "It's weird going two straight dinners without hearing his witticisms."

"Father," Charles remarked, "the only way _wit_ could ever fall within the same sentence as _Pierce_ is if the word is preceded with a _t_."

Father Mulcahy sighed.

"It's just not the same with you, Major," he groaned. "His quips are less—how shall I call it—_biting_."

"Speaking of biting," Hunnicutt interrupted with a wince, "I think I just chipped my tooth on the meatloaf."

Shaking his head at the bantering around him, Colonel Potter turned to the priest to answer his question.

"By my reckoning, Padre, they should have been back at least two hours ago. I'm sure they're hurrying back as quick as they can."

"Ah yes," Charles added, "they wouldn't deign to miss this gourmet feast for a mere edible dinner in the Pearl of the Orient."

* * *

"His name is Lieutenant George Stevenson," Margaret muttered to herself, scribbling down notes on a pad of paper as she and Hawkeye sat on the plane on their way back to Seoul. "He's originally from Wheeling, West Virginia. I'll have to contact his friends and acquaintances to find out about this Marie woman."

"When are you gonna do that?" Hawkeye said, interrupted her train of thought. "Margaret, just because you promised him you'd do that doesn't mean you have to do it. Think of all the promises we've made to patients—I remember promising one guy that his family would have plenty of money and that they'd be able to survive without him. I mean, the guy was broke, and I'm not much better off. I couldn't do a thing."

"Your point being?"

He sighed.

"My point being there are some things you can't do. I remember when a patient with more holes in him than a sponge—he didn't make it—made me promise him that he'd go to heaven. Now, how the hell can I guarantee that?"

"We will be diverting course slightly because of some bad weather," the pilot announced. "We will be passing over Uijeongbu shortly on our descent into Seoul."

"Well, I'm going to do it for Lieutenant Stevenson," Margaret said, straightening her posture. "Marie deserves to know. It shouldn't be that difficult—it just requires a little time."

"But he did say that she's married to someone else. Don't you think that might hurt her current marriage?"

"The man is dead. How can a dead man hurt anything?"

"Fine, you got me. But Margaret," he said, reaching out towards her notepad, "can you put the notebook down for a second? I wanna talk to you about something."

"This is more important to me right now," she huffed. "Once the knowledge of the pilot is out of my head, it's gone forever. I have to write this all down before I forget."

"Well, the most important thing you need to know, no one could tell you."

She glanced up for a moment, intrigued by his comment.

"And what would that be?"

"Marie's last name. I don't know much about Wheeling, but you're gonna have a hell of a time tracking her down. It's too bad her name isn't more unique."

"Surely Lieutenant Stevenson has family and friends that can tell me."

"Margaret, can't you just put the paper away and let me talk to you for a second?"

"You just talked to me for at least three seconds. I don't see what else there is to say. I realize now that you and I weren't meant to be, so let's just leave it at that."

"That's just the thing, Margaret; I don't want to leave it at that," he replied, leaning towards her. "I acted like a complete moron last night and I want to start over with a clean slate."

"It's too late for that," she muttered, staring back down at her paper once again.

"It may have been too late for the pilot, but it's not too late for us," Hawkeye muttered. "We're both alive, aren't we? And neither of us is married to another person."

She gaped at him, blinking with confusion.

"What are you saying, Hawkeye?"

He blanched at the direct question. What _was_ he saying? Damn it, he needed more time to choose his words properly. As good as he was at cracking jokes, he was much less effective in making impassioned pleas. He glanced out the window, noticing that they were much closer to the ground now and the mountains looked familiar. It was then that the plane flew directly over the 4077th, for he could see the T-shaped building with the giant red cross on the top.

"It's the 4077th, Margaret," he giddily exclaimed. She glanced out the window briefly, annoyed at his lame change of subject.

"Aren't you going to answer my question—"

"In a second, but what is that?" Hawkeye blurted, pointing at a giant mountain of snow towering in the midst of their destination. "Is our humble abode getting attacked by the abominable snowman?"

"Well, if that's what it is, you two have something in common," she said, not bothering to look out the window again.

"Lemme guess; neither of us have hearts. Am I right?"

"Oh, I guess you actually have two things in common—that, and the fact that you're both abominable."

"Ha ha. Good one. I must be rubbing off on you, literally and—"

"You can forget about ever rubbing off on me again."

"I'm sorry, Margaret," he blurted, looking over at her, his face earnest. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I wish I could take it back, but I can't… It's just—I'm not used to talking afterwards. Please don't read into it any more than that," he admitted with a shrug. "There's usually another couple waiting just outside the supply room door, knocking so insistently... You know how it is."

"No, I don't," she retorted, shaking her head.

"You have a tent all to yourself, if nothing else. You don't need to expedite your lovemaking. You can take your good old time. I am one to enjoy the moment for as long as it lasts."

"Yeah," she remarked, "and after the moment passes, enjoyment goes right out the window too."

"Margaret, I'm the kind of guy that's there when I'm needed. That's why I became a surgeon. I'm not the type to hang around and exchange pillow talk afterwards. Now you, for instance, work when you are _and_ aren't needed. Your whole outlook on life is different than mine." He then squinted up an eye like Popeye. "What can I say? I yam what I yam."

Come to think of it, Major Winchester had said something very similar to her only yesterday. Was she really expecting too much of a man for him to do something unexpected, like be the aggressor or spend the whole night together? It was sad that she couldn't combine the two men—Hawkeye's prowess, looks and sense of humor with Winchester's devotion, taste, and riches.

"You're not Popeye—he would have done anything for Olive Oyl," she growled. "You're Wimpy."

"Touché," he muttered, stifling a smile at her pun. "That being said, I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger that wasn't made in the Mess Tent."

"I just don't get it," she groaned. "How can you be so shallow but appear to be so deep?"

"That's the advantage of being a surgeon; it lets me bloody the water," Hawkeye replied. "Can't see the bottom then."

She shook her head slowly and decided to get the conversation back on track.

"Is that your answer to my question?"

"Well, no—it's just, when I was a kid, my cousin pushed me out of a boat in the middle of a lake. I almost drowned that day… and so I tend to stay shallow—"

"Ugh, that's not even the question I'm talking about," she murmured. "I'm talking about earlier, when you were saying that it's not too late for us… I was wondering what you meant by that."

"Just what I said," he murmured, feeling sweat trickling down the back of his neck even though it was near freezing in the airplane.

"That's too vague. You said, and I quote—"

"Just gimme some time before I have to explain myself. To tell you the truth, _I_ don't even know what I meant."

"Ugh, just forget about it, Hawkeye," she muttered, waving her hand dismissively at him. "I don't want to force you to do or say anything that you don't mean."

"You're not forcing me to do anything," he said, narrowing his eyes at her. "Though technically you could, being as you do outrank me…."

* * *

The plane landed shortly thereafter in Seoul, and Hawkeye took over the driving duties on their drive back to Uijeongbu. However, unlike their trip to Seoul, Hawkeye remained completely silent, looking deep in thought throughout the short journey.

The jeep drove through the gate of the 4077th, the giant snowman towering over their vehicle as they drove around the _cul de sac_ on their way to the motor pool.

Giant icicles caked the roofs of the buildings of the 4077th. The giant snowman in the center of camp had been decorated with a too-small scarf, eyes and mouth made of large dark-colored rocks, and whose nose was a wine bottle shoved halfway into the snow, the bottom of it sticking out. Hawkeye sighed at the lack of originality. Had he been here, it would have been far more recognizable. At least they had the giant nose right, if they were going for a Klinger snowman.

"I'd appreciate you keeping what we did to yourself," Margaret warned.

"And you don't say a word about my dancing and dressing up," he replied hastily. "I don't want the other nurses getting any ideas. I have very low standards to uphold."

She groaned. His next plans were very clear. So he had no intention of trying to salvage their love.

"I mean," he stammered, realizing his mistake in joking about such a thing, "I'm not trying to uphold standards or anything, I just…"

"I get it," she remarked bitterly, as his voice trailed off.

"I was just joking about the nurses," he muttered, fervently shaking his head. "Why would I go back to them when I got to be with the best one?"

* * *

"I think I heard a jeep," Father Mulcahy announced, glancing off in the direction of the entrance to the 4077th.

"Radar would have bested you by five minutes, at least," Winchester muttered, simultaneously relieved and annoyed. "Even I heard it coming at least two minutes ago."

"Radar," Hunnicutt muttered with a little scoff. The idea of his daughter calling the former company clerk _daddy_ was still too fresh in his mind.

"So, are we going to go outside and greet them?" Mulcahy asked, all too eager for a friendly hello.

"St. Nicholas himself could show up here and I wouldn't go out in that frigid wilderness, even to catch a glimpse," Winchester retorted. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked over to see Hunnicutt smiling sadly at him.

"Charlie," Hunnicutt murmured. "Your mother and I have something to tell you. It's about Santa…."

Winchester rolled his eyes, shaking off the hand.

"Very funny, Hunnicutt. If you're so keen on the idea, why don't you be the one to welcome them?"

"They can both walk, at last I remember," Hunnicutt replied. "Even so, the stench wafting from the mess tent might drive them away from here."

"And for good reason," Winchester muttered. "Just the sight of this so-called broccoli makes me want to upchuck."

He was met with a silly smile from Hunnicutt, who touched him on the back again.

"Son, you can be guaranteed St. Nick won't come if you don't eat your broccoli."

* * *

Hawkeye tossed his suitcases and dress uniform on his bed in the Swamp, letting out a long-held sigh. After exiting the jeep, he'd watched Margaret walking in the opposite direction toward her tent. The only reason he'd decided not to head directly to the mess tent and its distinctive odor was because he was still torn as to how to approach Margaret. He'd admitted quite a lot to her and promised to admit more to her. This was new territory for him and he had to adjust to the idea of it before he could address her concerns.

After hanging his dress uniform back up, Hawkeye pulled on another coat and a hat and headed towards the mess tent, opening the curtain to find B.J., Charles, Colonel Potter, and Father Mulcahy sitting at a table, with some enlisted men and some nurses at other tables. He strode over to the officers' table to see them turn to him with smiles and waves. Thankfully Margaret wasn't there yet. A big smile appeared on his face at the relief he felt.

"For a second I thought you guys froze solid," he remarked, getting within earshot of them. He sniffed the air with a look of distaste. "I can assume it isn't the food keeping you inside the mess tent."

"Actually, it does weigh down the stomach a good deal, like a load of bricks," Mulcahy replied. "Is Major Houlihan coming?"

Charles immediately glared Hawkeye's way. This was the defining moment when Hawkeye's behavior and response would tell him what all happened these past two days.

"She's putting her stuff away," Hawkeye replied, using all his willpower to avoid losing the smile that had been on his face before the question.

"Will she be coming for dinner?"

Pierce shrugged. Winchester beamed, a naughty little smirk on his face as he again focused on his food.

"So Colonel Potter here tells me they buried him in Tokyo. I wonder why that would be," Mulcahy said searchingly. Hawkeye hadn't expected the chaplain to be so interested, but he couldn't avoid answering the easy questions. Surely B.J. and Charles had far more difficult questions for him later in the Swamp.

"Her sister made all the funeral arrangements. He doesn't have much family in the States."

"How was the funeral?" Colonel Potter asked.

"As fun as can be expected," Hawkeye began, irony in his voice. "Lots of different fashions—WWI, WWII, Korea…. Dress uniforms have certainly changed over the years. Didn't see one male civilian there."

"How fortunate of you to be giving your attention to such an important matter," Charles remarked. "I'm sure Margaret appreciated your attentiveness."

"My nickname does happen to be Hawkeye," Pierce retorted. "I see things."

Suddenly the PA cut into their conversation.

"Attention all personnel! There's a trio of incoming wounded! Meet them in triage!"

"One for each of us," Potter commented to Hunnicutt and Winchester.

"What about me, Colonel?" Hawkeye blurted. "I don't wanna be picked last."

"Get used to it, Pierce," Charles remarked with a sly smirk. "It'll be like grade school all over again."

At that, Pierce stuck his tongue out at him.

"Why don't you get settled back in?" Potter said to Hawkeye. "You tell Margaret to do the same. This is nothing we can't handle ourselves."

"Fine," Pierce huffed, "but if you need me, you know where to find me. I'll be dead."

"I'll be sure to notice what everyone wears to your funeral," Charles quipped.

* * *

"Who needs me?"

The three men looked up from their patients at the nurse standing at the door in full surgical gear. Even though her mask obscured her entire face, save for her eyes, Winchester knew it was Margaret and found himself hoping she'd automatically head for his gurney, even though he already had a nurse assisting him.

"Major Houlihan," Potter said sternly, "I told Pierce to tell you to relax tonight. Did he not inform you?"

"No," she replied, stepping towards the colonel's patient, "and even if he had, I would have come anyway. Anyone need me?"

Hunnicutt glanced up, acutely aware of the fast-filling chest cavity of his patient.

"I could use some more sponges, but—"

"Yes, Doctor," she interrupted.

"We don't have any more in the O.R.," Klinger explained, shrugging. "They're in the supply room."

With a curt nod, she left the room before Colonel Potter could get a word in edgewise.

"Hunnicutt, I don't appreciate you giving our bereaved a job to do."

"Sorry, Colonel," he replied, "but she didn't let me finish. I was going to tell her—"

"You fell right on your _but_ on that one, Captain. Don't say another word, you hear?"

"Of course, Colonel, but—"

"Not another word, and I don't wanna hear any _buts_."

"I second that, but mostly because there tends to be an accompanying odor," Winchester commented from his table. Potter gave him a dirty look.

"You too Winchester. I want total silence. From _all_ parts of your bodies."

Margaret quickly returned with a box of sponges, but Colonel Potter stepped in front of her before she could deliver them to B.J.

"What are you doing?" she asked, gawking at him in surprise.

"You deliver those to Hunnicutt and then you're off for the night. Comprende?"

She sighed with exasperation as he allowed her to give the items to the mustached surgeon.

"Colonel, I am perfectly capable of—"

"This isn't up to you to decide, Major. We have plenty of hands here and you need your rest after your trip."

Hunnicutt gave her a grateful nod and she looked over at her commanding officer from her position by Hunnicutt's patient.

"Believe me, I want nothing more than to get back to wor—"

"Oh no," Charles groaned, "I'm out of 3-0 silk. Nurse—"

"I'll get it," Margaret called out. Colonel Potter tried to block her from leaving for the supply room but it was too late. After she'd left the O.R., the old surgeon pointed at Charles.

"Winchester, another word from you and _I'm_ gonna need more 3-0 silk after I suture your mouth shut."

* * *

Margaret hated to be ordered back to her tent, but she was only allowed to cross the room to Winchester's side with the expectation that it would be her last assistance in the O.R. for the night.

As she handed the tall surgeon the 3-0 silk, he leaned down towards her. His nurse was busy suctioning some fluid out of the patient's lower abdomen, so she couldn't hear their conversation.

"May I speak to you later in your quarters?" he asked.

Margaret blinked at him with confusion. Why was he being so nice to her when she'd cruelly left him out of her trip to Tokyo with no real explanation? They hadn't exactly parted on bad terms, and yet, right after he'd made his impassioned speech for acceptance, she'd hastily decided that Hawkeye was to be her companion for the trip. For all intents and purposes, her dalliances with Charles and Hawkeye both were over.

"Why?" she ventured carefully, a suspicious look on her face.

"I just want to talk, Margaret."

"About what, exactly?" she questioned, narrowing her eyes at him. He looked uncomfortable for a moment.

"Actually, to apologize, as it were."

She was further confused. Now, Hunnicutt and Potter were staring at them. The next time Margaret spoke, she murmured lowly to Winchester.

"For what?" she retorted in a hiss. "If it's for the roof, don't worry about it. I already forgave you for that."

"It's not for that," he replied in a whisper. "Please, Margaret. I can come by after I've finished up in here. I shan't be long."

"Whatever it is, I forgive you," she retorted, perplexed at the tenderness in his eyes. "So don't bother." Why wasn't he angry, as he should very well be?

"This happens to be extremely important—"

"Are the two of you finished up exchanging secrets like schoolchildren?" Potter growled. "Margaret, I ordered you some much-needed R&R, which means you report to your tent on the double."

As she listened to the colonel's tirade, she found herself being tapped on the back by Winchester. When she turned her head to glance back at him, he suddenly became aware of something, and looked irritated with himself. Even so, he was looking to her for approval.

"No, Doctor," Margaret muttered quietly to him. Rolling his eyes at her refusal, Winchester turned to his nurse.

"Nurse Bigelow, can you close for me?" he asked, holding his hands out in disgust. "I seem to have contaminated my glove for no good reason."

Margaret glanced back at him before she stepped out of the O.R., shaking her head in confusion all the while.

* * *

"So, how'd it go with Margaret?" B.J. asked Hawkeye as he strode into the Swamp. He noticed that the dark-haired doctor was lying on his cot in his military fatigues, not even bothering to get under the covers. Not only that, but Hawkeye looked to be staring off into space.

At the sound of his bunkmate's voice, Hawkeye turned to B.J., his face strained.

"At first it was great, but now I don't know."

"I hope you're not referring to the funeral as great," Hunnicutt replied. "What do you mean, it was great?"

"Margaret," Hawkeye muttered, the volume of his voice greatly lowered. "She was great. Everything was going so well—I could barely believe it, myself."

"How was Margaret great? Do you mean, she was handling herself well in light of her dad's death? Or that she was…."

Hawkeye began fervently shaking his head, causing B.J. to stop speaking.

"It was nothing like that, Beej. Promise me you won't repeat what I'm about to tell you."

"I promise," B.J. said, holding his hand up as if taking an oath. "Now, how was she great? It's not like you to give glowing reviews with such reckless abandon. What did you two do, anyway, sleep together?"

* * *

**A/N: If you're a fan of Father Mulcahy, he'll be important in the next chapter or two!**


	28. Anchors Aweigh

**A/N: Thank you so much to hippiechick19, mary, and tlc27! Your reviews encouraged me to improve and push out this chapter! And thanks to those of you who've been following along on this long journey!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 28 – ANCHORS AWEIGH**

At B.J.'s accurate guess of what exactly had occurred between him and Margaret in Tokyo, Hawkeye Pierce gaped at B.J. Hunnicutt for several tense seconds, the answer written on his face. Finally he rolled his eyes, returning to his normal, unaffected self.

"Guess I didn't even have to say it," Hawkeye murmured. "Is it that obvious?"

At Hawkeye Pierce's casual calmness, B.J. stood ramrod straight, his face losing color.

"Are you being serious right now, Hawk?" he said, squinting suspiciously. "Because I can't tell."

"Keep it down, Beej. Don't need for Charles to overhear us. I doubt he'd care, but I can't stand those pouty little looks of his when he thinks no one's watching."

B.J. was practically stammering at this point, his eyes wide with complete shock.

"So you're telling me you and Margaret actually had sex?"

"Shhh! Beej! That big lug could come walking in here any minute. I don't want to have to run away from a man hurling records at me. I mean, Beethoven and Mozart usually send me running, but not in that sense."

"How could you do such a thing?" B.J. uttered, not a trace of amusement on his face. "You knew that Margaret and Charles were—"

"Were _nothing_," Hawkeye spat. "She told me the whole relationship thing was a lie."

"Well, that'll be news to Charles," B.J. retorted. "He's been moping around here ever since she left, insisting that you were making the moves on her. I told him he had nothing to worry about, but I was wrong. I thought I knew you, buddy."

"Hey, I can't help it if she's willing to lie to get me into bed with her. I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth."

"I don't see a horse's mouth," B.J. commented, crossing his arms. "All I see in front of me is a horse's ass."

"Ouch, Beej. Guess I deserved that."

"Winchester's not gonna be happy about this, Hawkeye. You betrayed him."

"How can I betray something I never agreed to in the first place? Besides, he'll never find out about this. You promised, Beej."

"Have you no common human decency?" B.J. raged, the volume of his voice increasing steadily. "Do you honestly believe you're going to treat him like usual after this? He stays in this damn tent with us, day and night."

"Watch me," Hawkeye replied, smiling mischievously. "But getting back to the point, the trip to Tokyo with Margaret was honestly the best thing that could've happened. It made me realize that—"

"Well, it's a big burden to put on me, Hawk," Hunnicutt interrupted. "Maybe you have no conscience but I do. I can't imagine going back to—"

"Be Mr. Morality for all I care!" Hawkeye retorted, shaking his finger at the mustached surgeon. "You promised me, Beej; you didn't just take a hypocritical oath. Two wrongs don't make a right."

"You're expecting an awful lot out of me," B.J. began.

"This is Major _Ego_ we're talking about, the guy who only a couple of weeks ago got himself into a fight with everyone at the 4077th over that damned _Boston Globe_ of his. Are you telling me you're taking his side on this?"

"It's not a matter of sides, Hawk. It's a matter of right and wrong. You were wrong to do what you did."

The dark-haired doctor had just about had enough of arguing with his bunkmate. He had to reveal specific details to get B.J. to see it his way. At the risk of sounding childish, he pulled out his last defense.

"Well, she started it. And guess what, Beej? I'm not stopping it."

* * *

"Margaret."

The blonde woman stirred only slightly, changing the position of her hand as she lie in bed, but remaining asleep.

"Margaret, wake up."

This time she stretched an arm outwards, contacting something solid. This stirred her awake. She blinked in the dark tent, a hand moving to her eyes to rub out the sleep. Who had said that? She couldn't even see her own hand in front of her face.

"Are you awake?"

With a start, Margaret sat up in bed, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light streaming through the tiny windows above her cot.

"Who's there?" she uttered, her voice gravelly but high-pitched with fear. "Is that you, Hawkeye?" Frantically she reached in the direction of her nightstand, fumbling for the light switch.

"It's Charles," the intruder answered. Suddenly she found the switch and clicked on the light, watching Winchester squint automatically.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she raged. "Why didn't you knock first?"

"I did, but you didn't answer," he replied, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"What possessed you to come into my tent while I was sleeping, to just barge in here and—"

"Yet another reason for me to apologize. Margaret," he said gently, stepping closer to her bed as she stared up at his face in disturbed awe. "The other day, when I'd agreed to your request without knowing what exactly I'd agreed to and then essentially reneging on it—I just wanted you to know that I'm now aware of what you were implying and I would've gladly done it."

She blinked several times in complete surprise, rendered speechless. She recalled that request, of a very different kind of role-play, a request that he had laughed off as preposterous. Now he was in her tent, directly addressing it once again as if an entire day hadn't passed since they'd last spoken of it. So much had changed in the last twenty-four hours, so much that he wasn't yet aware of it. Was he saying what she thought he was?

"As tactless as I treated the matter, I understand your reasons for precluding me from going along with you," Winchester explained, encouraged by the expression he was receiving from her. Slowly he lowered himself to his knees by her bed so that he was more in her line of sight, his blue eyes almost seeming to glow in the light. "I only wish you would have asked me outright so that there was no confusion on my part. I would've gladly gone along with it, Margaret."

"You would've?" she blurted. Why hadn't he told her this yesterday, before she'd left for Tokyo? She was mortified.

"Yes, my dear," he said with utmost tenderness, reaching out a hand and running his fingers along her cheek.

She stared at him like a cornered mouse in a room full of cats, her mouth opening and closing with no words coming out.

"It is unfortunate that the opportunity was lost," he added, a smile on his face but sadness in his eyes. She made a face of confusion at him as he continued to speak. "However, we still have the wager, which I happened to have won the other day. We shall travel to Tokyo on lighter terms and pick up where we left off. That isn't to say we couldn't visit your father's grave if it be your desire. He is buried there; is he not?"

"Why are you doing this, Major," she muttered, her teeth clattering with pure adrenaline, a tear most certainly welling up in her eyes. She hastily wiped it away with the back of her hand, watching his look of surprise. "Why are you doing this now, of all times? I mean, I took Hawkeye to Tokyo. I didn't even tell you first or give you a chance to—"

"Shh," he said soothingly, a warm empathetic smile on his face. "I understand, Margaret. It was my fault."

She could only gape at him, overwhelmed by his compassion. It was unfathomable that Charles was more forgiving than she; she was finding it exceedingly difficult to forgive Hawkeye for his sexual faux pas and yet Charles was forgiving her for completely abandoning him without a word of explanation. He didn't even know the half of what had happened. She spoke again, her voice breaking.

"Why are you taking all the blame for _my_ hasty decision to—"

"Because I gave you the wrong impression from the start and didn't make an effort to clarify. I now understand why most people don't warm to me upon first meeting me. Unlike Pierce and Hunnicutt, I'm not known for my bedside manner, which translates to—"

"I think you're doing pretty good with bedside manner," she interrupted, tears openly running down her cheeks. "I mean, look at me. I can only count a handful of people who've seen me cry."

He reached out, wiping her tears away.

"Shh, Margaret. No need to cry, my dear. I'm sure Pierce was comforting in his own way."

"What? Oh, _him_," she snorted, her voice full of bitterness and cynicism. "Not really."

Charles made a face of disgust.

"What do you mean?" he muttered. Suddenly his face took on a more serious expression. "What did he—"

"It doesn't matter. Don't be upset with him; it was all my doing," she muttered. "You're better off finding someone else, someone who's worthy of you, because I'm not."

He rolled his eyes, flashing her a gentle smile.

"In case you haven't noticed, you are my sole interest on this entire godforsaken compound. I'm not going to lose you on account of Pierce and his womanizing ways."

"Please, Charles. You should just go. You're too good for me. I don't deserve your forgiveness."

With that, Winchester straightened his arms, pulling Margaret's body away from his as his eyes searched hers, his face knitted with concentration.

"You don't actually believe that to be true, Margaret."

"I do," she muttered. "For you to even consider acting out my warped desires after I just left you behind without a word is just—it's just, I never thought of you as that kind of man. I was stupid."

He was stunned into silence and could only gape at her, his hands still on her upper arms. _Warped desires?_ Was her request, then, not of Tokyo? He felt his heart began to race and prayed that she couldn't hear it.

"Ha," she said, shaking her head slowly, a sad smile on her face. She shrugged his hands off of her arms. "Maybe you're thinking that by granting me that… _act_ I asked for before, we'd both be winners: you'll be _punishing_ me and I'll be getting my wish. Well, I don't deserve to get my wish." At that, tears welled up again in her eyes. "I'm sorry that I didn't realize you were such a… such a _good_ man."

Suddenly Winchester's mouth was bone-dry. So she had _not_ been secretly trying to convince him to go to Tokyo with her—she had simply wanted to get her kicks from something truly barbaric. Margaret had indeed been serious about the whole man-striking-woman role-play, the one he had presumed to be a rather odd joke. He recalled laughing it off when she'd first opened up and told him of her desire. Their last conversation about her infinitely vague request had ended tersely and then she had quietly taken Hawkeye to Tokyo. Had she convinced Hawkeye to satisfy her strange cravings? By the tears in her eyes, he'd guess no.

"You're making me feel even worse now," Margaret muttered, snapping him out of his reverie. "Don't you have anything to say? Is that what you were thinking, that by… _punishing_ me, we'd both benefit? That's fine if that's what you were thinking."

Charles stared off into space for a moment. The way Margaret was putting things made it seem as if no matter what, the _punishment_ she so wanted would not be happening. This was important, because he was not capable of fulfilling that particular desire of hers, even if she truly did deserve to be punished. What harm was there in stepping onto the pedestal of virtue when there was nothing to lose and admiration to gain?

"Charles," she said, leaning towards him, her nose mere inches from his own, "is that what you were thinking? Please tell me—just for curiosity's sake."

"What does it matter," he muttered, testing the waters. "As you said, it won't happen anyway…."

"It does matter to me," she replied. "I know it won't happen, but just—I want to hear you say it, so I can feel as lousy as I deserve to feel about treating you so badly, and everything…."

Everything? His mind reeled. What was she referring to?

"Margaret, what did you—"

She put her finger on his lips, silencing him. Her face lingered tantalizingly close to his.

"Just tell me. Is that what you were thinking—that you could 'get back at me' in that way? Please tell me."

"It was," he murmured, his eyes downcast as he spoke.

The look he received in reply was that of total shame, tears streaming from Margaret's eyes as she kept her eyes aimed at the ground.

"Shhh," he said soothingly, leaning forward on his knees. "Don't cry, my dear." Though she was being addressed, Margaret couldn't look up at him. Charles took this opportunity to lean forward and wrap his arms around her, pulling her into a comforting hug. She allowed him to hug her close, and wrapped her arms around him in kind, feeling his heart rapidly hammering against her own thundering heartbeat.

Just then, Margaret's door swung open without a single knock, revealing Hawkeye's normal facial expression turning to that of complete devastation at the sight before him.

At the draft of frigid air filling the room during Hawkeye's impromptu intrusion, Margaret, still tightly enveloped in Winchester's arms, turned her head to look at the person in the door. The male voice blurted out awkwardly and was abruptly clipped off.

"Margaret, I—"

Charles looked over at the sound, seeing Pierce standing before them. He did not move a muscle.

Hawkeye's mouth was now slightly ajar, his eyes devoid of all life. Immediately Margaret pulled away from Major Winchester, straightening her back and wiping the tears out of her eyes. Her voice emerged as little more than a croak.

"Hawkeye, it's not—"

Before she could say a word more, Hawkeye Pierce abruptly turned and walked out of sight.

* * *

After the appearance of Hawkeye Pierce looking very unlike his usual self, Charles was urged to leave Margaret's tent. Margaret's response to seeing the raven-haired doctor in her doorway was alarming to him: her pulling out of his hug, her body language, the ragged way Pierce had addressed her, and the sound of her voice when she'd first seen Pierce gaping at her. What had happened between them in the last twenty-four hours? Margaret refused to say, and could only repeat that she was unworthy of Charles's forgiveness and that he should go. It figured; even while standing on the pedestal of virtue for his _forgiving_ nature, he'd been instantaneously forgotten when Pierce had appeared.

Charles Winchester trod over to the Officers Club disheartened. What had Margaret been talking about, all that nonsense about her not being worthy of him? Had his arrogant ways truly convinced her of that fallacy, or had she done something unforgivable with Pierce?

And Pierce—oh, he'd kill that man, both for going to Tokyo with Margaret and for interrupting them just now. For now, the raven-haired doctor was nowhere in sight. That was fortunate for Pierce, because he would have been confronted with a barrage of questions from Winchester had he been around.

In their tent conversation, Margaret had told the tall major not to blame Pierce for some unspecified thing that had occurred in Tokyo, but he couldn't help it. For her sake, he'd exact his revenge subtly enough that only Pierce would be aware of the connection, and yet the vengeance would be just as sweet. Pierce deserved it, his devastated look in Margaret's doorway be damned.

A drink was in order—a drink and some distance from it all. Charles had to plan ahead and swallow his anger before he'd begin to exact his revenge on the lecher that had summarily taken Margaret's attention off of him with one sad look. If Margaret caught wind of what Winchester was now planning to do, she'd be upset with him yet again. He couldn't risk that, when her emotions were already so vulnerable. No, he couldn't risk it at all.

As he stepped through the door of the Officers Club, he saw a random riffraff of people sitting in the small aluminum-sided building. A group of nurses sat giggling at one table, with Staff Sergeant Rizzo sleeping alone at another table, drooling all over his sleeves. However, it was a man sitting alone at the bar that caught Winchester's eye.

"Hunnicutt, is that you?" he asked, stepping towards the bar and craning his neck to look at the man's face. The man met him with a look of almost painful restraint, looking to be on his third glass of scotch.

"Pull up a chair, Charles," the mustached surgeon said as he gestured to a seat. He was sipping a scotch, his expression that of utter disgust. It was highly unlike the happy-go-lucky Hunnicutt to be in such a melancholy state.

Charles sat down next to Hunnicutt, staring at his bunkmate the entire time. By the look on Hunnicutt's face, someone had just told him he was to spend another five years in Korea.

"Is something wrong, Hunnicutt? You look—vexed."

"Are you going to get something to drink or what?" Hunnicutt retorted, gesturing impatiently.

"Where's Pierce?" Charles asked, his mouth agape.

"Is that how every conversation between us is going to start from now on? First yesterday in the showers and now here. Ugh, I'm sick and tired of it already."

"What happened between you two?" Charles muttered with narrowed eyes, leaning closer to Hunnicutt to avoid being overheard. "Tell me, Hunnicutt. What did he do _now_?"

"Trusted me with a whopper of a secret, is what," Hunnicutt replied, looking downright disgusted. "It's like he threw an anchor in my arms."

"And what might this anchor be?" Winchester inquired, leaning closer yet.

"As if I'd tell you," Hunnicutt replied. "What are you doing here if you're not gonna drink?"

"It's easier for two to hold an anchor than one," Winchester offered. "Igor, a cognac, please. Would you like something, Hunnicutt?"

"Yeah, another scotch."

"You heard the man," Winchester told Igor. "Another scotch here." He turned to face the mustached surgeon, hoping he'd softened his resolve with the free drink.

"You know how lucky I am?"

Winchester narrowed his eyes with bemusement at Hunnicutt's out-of-the-blue statement.

"Take Peg and I, for instance. Over five thousand miles apart, her and Erin in sunny Mill Valley, and me in Uijeongbu, South Korea."

"I'm having trouble following you, Hunnicutt," Winchester admitted, his face registering alarm at the statement. He was handed a snifter of cognac, which he swirled around before taking a sip. Upon Hunnicutt's scotch being laid in front of him, the mustached doctor lifted it to his mouth and drank a large gulp.

"I haven't even moved yet," B.J. replied, gesturing for Winchester to follow yet not standing up. "Hell, you're still sitting right here next to me. Like I was saying, we live so far apart—she and I. Right now I have no idea what she's doing." He shook his head exaggeratedly. "She could've joined the circus. She could be riding an elephant right now, for all I know."

"Didn't you once mention her being afraid of heights? I highly doubt she'd—"

"That wasn't my point, Charles. My point is, there are benefits to being so far apart—no rumor mill. Take you, for example—being seen with someone at the 4077th starts the rumor mill running at full speed, even more so when a relationship is hinted at by one or more of the parties. The rumor mill is unaware of the truth; it just runs for gossip's sake. However, many times the involved parties become spurred by the mill to spread those lies."

"I fail to understand what you're insinuating," Charles remarked, keeping his voice low.

"Were you or weren't you and Margaret an item beginning the day she slapped you? The honest-to-God truth, Charles."

"I already told you," Charles replied, voice tinged with annoyance. When that failed to satisfy Hunnicutt's question, he cleared his throat before continuing after a short hesitation. "Technically, it was that day. Yes."

B.J. narrowed his eyes at him, the stench of scotch overpowering on his breath.

"_Technically?_ What technical things needed to be done to cement the—" He made a face at his own question. "Never mind, I think I get the picture. Speaking of which, I need another scotch to warp it just a tad more. Igor," he called out, pounding on the bar, "another scotch for the freshly blinded."

"'_Kyu_," Charles muttered to himself, rolling his eyes.

After finishing the scotch that Charles had bought him as well as downing half of his new glass in a gulp, Hunnicutt turned to the larger man.

"So you're telling me that you and Margaret were _technically_ together when she left for Tokyo?"

"Technically, yes. Why do you ask? Do you want a documentary of it?"

"Just the word _technically_ is enough to put a very disturbing picture in my head. Alright; who all knew about it?"

"You, Margaret, Pierce…. That's all."

Shaking his head with disappointment, Hunnicutt finished off the other half of his glass.

"Damn it. I need to be drunker, or he'll never believe it," he muttered.

"What in God's name are you speaking of, Hunnicutt? You can be assured that I've since gotten hopelessly tangled up in the anchor cable and am thus unable to even reach the anchor, let alone drop it—"

"If Hawkeye believes I got totally inebriated, he's more likely to believe it just slipped out," Hunnicutt replied, his words slurred together.

"You _are_ totally inebriated. Only an idiot would be ignorant of that fact. Now, what is in the process of slipping out?"

"He can't know that I told you," Hunnicutt muttered. "You have to keep it under wraps in the Swamp at least or else the deal is off."

"Ugh, what is it with you Army types making asinine deals when you're about to betray someone's trust?"

"Ha, my betrayal of trust isn't the worst of it. Hawkeye betrayed your trust, Charles. Just like you said, he knew you were with Margaret and yet, he slept with her behind your back." Hunnicutt shut his mouth promptly, his eyes growing wide at the unintentional early slip of the tongue. Thankfully no one in the Officers Club had even looked up or froze in place at the admission. It was a comfort to know that he hadn't been overheard.

"Whoops; that was supposed to be a gradual… revelation," Hunnicutt muttered, his eyes fixed on the price list behind the bar.

All the while, Charles's eyes widened with justifiable rage. They had slept together? He couldn't even get the damn woman to take her shoes off in her own tent, and Pierce had had _sex_ with her?

"I'm sure he feels bad about it, Charles," Hunnicutt's voice wafted into his psyche. "I told him about your suspicions and—"

"You did _what_?" Charles roared, slamming his fist down on the bar. The group of people sitting in the Officers Club all stopped talking at once to watch the drama. Sergeant Rizzo awoke to glance over at the pair with groggy eyes.

"Morning already?" he muttered to himself, until he was shushed by a curious trio of nurses.

"Charles, it was all in the spirit of confession. He confessed, and then—" Hunnicutt said with a timid shrug.

"In the spirit of confession? If that's so, enlighten him with your own confessions, not mine! How dare you! Is Father Mulcahy the only one in this godforsaken hellhole that can keep secrets to himself?"

"Well, it _is_ his job," Hunnicutt murmured. He watched with ever-growing anxiety as Charles leapt to his feet, looming over him with fists clenched.

"I swear, Hunnicutt, if I was as inebriated as you are right now, I'd take this argument outside and wallop you from here to Tuesday."

Hunnicutt remained impassive to the threat and could only sigh and shrug.

"What are you taking it out on me for? I'm not the one who slept with your girlfriend."

Unlike the first time, his statement was certainly overheard this time, being as the building had since fallen silent after Charles's outburst of rage. The nurses sitting nearby murmured amongst themselves at the possible identity of Winchester's girlfriend.

"You're right," Winchester muttered, glaring around the Officers Club, his jaw set in a threatening grimace. "I'm going to kill him."

"Why bother?" Hunnicutt replied. "The food here is already doing the job on all of us."

"He's not worthy of that kind of death," Winchester retorted with a sneer.

"Are you kidding me? It's slow, painful, and it slowly turns your senses of taste and smell against you. What could be worse than being betrayed by your own body?"

"Being betrayed by a person presumed to be a friend," Charles sneered.

"Touché," Hunnicutt muttered, holding up yet another glass of scotch in a kind of toast.

Charles again slammed his fist down on the bar, glaring down the nurses until they were only able to stare at him in stunned silence, hastily fleeing the building afterwards.

"I'm going to leave him in enemy territory and watch from a distance as the Reds snatch him up. They'll garnish him with pineapples, oranges, and marshmallows and make their very own _Hawkeye_ salad."

"Marshmallows?" Hunnicutt murmured, a smile crossing his face. "I do believe that's the first time I've heard that word used in a threat."

"Is that so?" Winchester retorted, baring his teeth. "I hope you said your goodbyes to him, because he's as good as dead, marshmallows be damned."

With that, the irate major stomped towards the entrance to the Officers Club.

"I have news, everyone!" Rizzo suddenly shouted as he leapt to his feet from a solid nap. Hunnicutt, Winchester, and Igor were his only audience but he didn't seem to notice that. "There's gonna be an earthquake! Warn Colonel Potter before I'm forced to fiddle with Jenny again!"

Winchester halted in place at the odd statement, with Hunnicutt and Igor staring at Rizzo in confusion.

"False alarm," Rizzo muttered, shaking his head as he stared down at the floorboards, which had stopped rattling at Winchester's sudden halt. "Carry on."

With that he sat back down and put his head back on the jeep-tire table, snoring within mere moments.

"Charles, wait," Hunnicutt called out, getting off his bar stool and stumbling towards the major. "I have one more piece of news that should make you less willing to kill Hawkeye outright. After all, he is my friend even though he can be quite the self-serving bastard at times."

"What's that?" Winchester said, standing in place, his eyes narrowed at the mustached physician approaching him. B.J. took a deep breath before saying his next words.

"Well, for one, he told me Margaret started it."

* * *

**A/N: So, as you might have realized, Father Mulcahy isn't in this chapter, but he will be in the next one! Sorry about that! I added some extra stuff yesterday to this chapter and it was made longer than it was originally, which pushed the other stuff into the next chapter! Stay tuned and I encourage you to leave me your feedback!**


	29. Fatherly Advice

**A/N: Thank you hippiechick19 and tlc27 for your feedback! I also have been incorporating the ideas of past reviewers into my story, as you may notice! **

**

* * *

CHAPTER 29 – FATHERLY ADVICE**

"Who is it?"

Father Mulcahy sat in his tent taking notes on some Bible passages for his upcoming Sunday sermon, pausing as he stared at his door. He hadn't expected to be called upon at this time of night, but what he had heard was most certainly a knock and it was most certainly his door that had been knocked upon.

"It's Hawkeye," the voice on the other side answered. Hawkeye stood outside the tent, suspiciously glancing around the empty compound. "Is this a bad time?" the surgeon added, feeling self-conscious.

"Come on in, Hawkeye," the priest called out with a smile. "It's never a bad time." At that, Father Mulcahy dog-eared the Bible page and closed the book, putting it aside. His tent was rather toasty and he was glad he hadn't changed into his nightclothes just yet.

Father Mulcahy watched as Hawkeye trudged into his tent looking as if he'd just seen a ghost. The surgeon's face was waxen and there was an unhealthy sheen to his skin. Even his eyes looked haunted.

"Why, you look like you've suffered quite a fright!" Father Mulcahy exclaimed, standing up to get the doctor a chair.

"It's that giant snow monster out there," Hawkeye murmured, lying through his teeth as he began pacing. "I'm not yet used to Yeti."

"Oh, I'm sorry about that, Hawkeye," Mulcahy replied, indicating the free chair. "I was the one to recommend that it be left there. I guess I should've considered how it would look at night."

"Don't worry about it, Father," Hawkeye muttered, his eyes distant, stopping in front of the priest's door. "I guess it's just something I'm going to have to get used to, as hard as it is to watch."

Father Mulcahy was puzzled and it showed on his face. Hawkeye was too busy staring off in the distance to notice Mulcahy's confusion.

"Are we talking about the same thing?" Mulcahy ventured, taking a seat in his usual chair. "Is there something you'd like to talk to me about, Hawkeye?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Hawkeye said, shrugging as he paced back and forth in Mulcahy's small tent, too full of nervous energy to sit down. "I'm really worried about my friend, you see."

"Oh, is that so?" Mulcahy asked, raising his eyebrows. Hawkeye was so disturbed that he hadn't even bothered to engage in small talk first. Apparently this was serious indeed.

"My friend—he kinda likes to play the field. He doesn't want to settle down. I mean, he even takes pride in the fact that he's a confirmed bachelor. But then something happened to him."

Hawkeye paused for dramatic effect, as Father Mulcahy leaned forward with interest.

"And what was that?"

"I guess you have to understand this guy's history. He had this little mistake of a fling in the past and the second time this woman came around, it meant a lot more to him."

"That doesn't sound too confusing yet. Sometimes it takes time to realize that—"

"The problem is, Father, is that when he fooled around with this woman this most recent time, she wasn't single. Come to think of it, she wasn't single the first time either."

"Okay," Mulcahy began haltingly, "so let me get this straight. You had two—I mean, your _friend_ had two flings with a taken woman. Were you—I mean, was your friend aware of this fact both times?"

"Well, the first time it happened it was spontaneous. We—I mean, _they_ thought they were gonna die. But to get to the point, that's not really important, Father. What I'm—_he_—oh, what the hell; I'm sure you've caught on—what _I'm_ having a problem with is when I had my second fling with this woman, she told me her current relationship was over. So I go to her, ready to finally tell her how I feel about her, and I see her making up with the guy that she was supposedly done with."

By this point, Father Mulcahy was staring wide-eyed and as intrigued as he could be in the direction of Hawkeye Pierce.

"Wow, that sounds like quite the love triangle you're involved with," Mulcahy murmured. "What do you think should come of it?"

"Well, I wanna be with her," he replied. "I think I've waited long enough."

"Is that what you think should come of it or is that what you hope will come of it?" the priest asked. "Why don't you sit down and rest, my son?"

Hawkeye stared down at the chair and then took a seat.

"Well, I thought she wanted me. I thought it was an easy decision for her. I mean, until a little bit ago, I hadn't realized the other guy stood a snowball's chance in hell with her. Of course, when I got back to the M.A.S.H., the snowball in hell took on a whole new meaning."

"I understand. You now realize that the other man is putting up a bit of a fight; am I right?"

"I was actually going with the literal interpretation, but I guess I see your point. I mean, a big snowman is standing as frozen as ever in our little slice of Hades, not to mention that the other guy is putting up a fight… so to hell with that saying." Hawkeye stopped speaking for a second, having gotten off track. "Dammit, where was I going with that?"

"I think you were telling me about the other man in the triangle."

"Right," Hawkeye began, remembering. "Yeah, so she really threw me for a loop. Here, I thought I had this thing in the bag. I mean, she's been making eyes at me for almost as long as I've been here."

"I can understand your confusion, my son, but I must ask you—if justice and fairness prevails, what should happen? You did knowingly choose to have an affair with her when she was with someone else. And yet, now you're finding that the other person involved doesn't like what happened. What does that tell you?"

Hawkeye stared down at the ground for several minutes, his hands clasped together, legs apart and back hunched over in the chair. Father Mulcahy watched the wheels turning in the man's head. After a time, Hawkeye sat up, looking more resolute.

"I guess it means that she should be with the other guy. He got her fair and square and I didn't. I should probably wait until they are through before I try to talk to her again, because it's just a matter of time."

"Why do you say that?"

"If you knew who I was talking about you'd understand. To think that she'd find something that redeemable in Ch—uh, in him, to carry on a relationship with him is crazy."

"That sounds like a good idea, waiting until that relationship is over before you pursue her again."

"In theory it sounds good, but I don't want to do that."

The blond priest's eyes widened.

"Why not?"

"I like the thrill of the chase. I like that uncertainty, the mystery that comes with pursuing a woman who isn't standing there with open arms blowing kisses at you. While she's with him she's even more irresistible than when she's single."

"It's certainly true that the grass always looks greener on the other side," Father Mulcahy began, smiling easily, using his hands for emphasis as he explained further. "When there's no fence, the grass is the same color. Right now there's a fence standing between you and her but you have to realize that once you're with her, there'll be no fence."

Hawkeye scratched his head, squinting at the priest. Suddenly he burst into song.

"Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies above. Don't fence me in," the dark-haired doctor began crooning in his soothing vibrato. At watching Father Mulcahy's look of confusion in response, he shut his mouth and shook his head. "Sorry, Father, you lost me. It's just, all that talk of fences makes me want to bolt, you know?"

Father Mulcahy cleared his throat nervously, preparing to explain himself better.

"So what did the woman do this time that she didn't do the first time that made you change your mind about her? Was it just the fact that she began a new relationship?"

"Maybe that, but there was more. I could write a book," Hawkeye murmured. "She was less sappy for one, even though that did come into play later. That's my problem with her; everything's going great and then she gets all clingy."

"Do you think that this woman's way of showing love is by being clingy, as you say?"

"I dunno. It's just, usually when I see her with this other guy, she's being exactly as I'd like her to be with me."

"And how is that?"

"She's distant, even aloof. She doesn't latch onto his arm and refuse to let go. She's more subtle with him. More informal."

"Do you think she loves the other involved party?"

Hawkeye chuckled at the priest's question, which baffled Father Mulcahy.

"The word _party_ could never be used to describe the guy," Hawkeye remarked, "unless it was followed by _pooper_."

Father Mulcahy fell silent at Hawkeye's avoidance of the question, his blue eyes wide behind his round glasses as he watched Hawkeye's expression go from amusement to uncertainty.

"I doubt it," Hawkeye finally admitted, looking less than confident. "I mean, if she really did, she wouldn't have ended up messing around with me again, you know?"

He looked to the priest for the answer to this question that so plagued him, watching the blond man consider. All the while his mind reeled. He couldn't believe that he had just found Margaret attempting to make up with Charles in her tent. Was she effectively giving up on their little Tokyo affair before he'd even had a chance to speak with her first? That had been the reason he'd gone to her tent tonight, to finally explain himself. It had taken him all day to decide what to say, and in a split-second, Major Ego's ill-timed visit had all but destroyed the cautiously sentimental statements Hawkeye had gone through so diligently in his head.

"Do you love her?"

Hawkeye's eyes locked on Father Mulcahy's at the question and he was irritated that the priest hadn't made a comment on his own opinions regarding the true nature of the double-major relationship.

"I'm just wondering right now if she's going to try to start over with the other guy," Hawkeye remarked, rubbing the back of his neck, which was now drenched with sweat.

"Does that matter? You already said you don't want to wait, but you're conflicted about something. Do you love her, Hawkeye?"

Hawkeye's mind went blank for several long moments as his eyes wandered all around Father Mulcahy's sparse accommodations. Finally Hawkeye took in a breath in preparation to speak, fully inflating his lungs with much-needed air.

"Yeah, I do."

"Do you love her when she's clingy, as you call it?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to put up with it 24/7," Hawkeye muttered. "It just gets irritating, you know? It ruins the whole mood."

"It's okay if you're irritated by it," Father Mulcahy explained, "but does it decrease your love for her?"

"I don't know," Hawkeye replied. "Hell, I have to get used to the way the word _love_ tastes in my mouth. It's very bitter right now and kind of tastes like sardines."

"Some people are very fond of sardines," Father Mulcahy said with a smile.

It was then that Hawkeye was reminded of Winchester's profession of love for the salty fish. He slapped his forehead, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"Ugh, thanks for reminding me," Hawkeye muttered, watching Father Mulcahy's smile remain stubbornly on his face. "Guess that's your opinion of it." He stood up abruptly and strode to the door, shaking his head with disappointment, throwing discretion to the wind. Certainly that persistent smile meant that Father Mulcahy was trying to convey his own opinion on who deserved Margaret's affections—an opinion that Hawkeye didn't like one bit. "Man, Winchester must've really worked his charm on you all these past twenty-four hours," the dark-haired surgeon muttered. "First B.J. and now you. What, did he pay you all off or something to turn against me?"

Father Mulcahy's face scrunched with hurt as he watched Hawkeye turn the doorknob to leave.

"What are you talking about—me and B.J.?" he called out. "I don't understand…"

Hawkeye lifted his hand dismissively.

"Eh, don't worry about it, Father. I get it."

"But Hawkeye—"

The dark-haired surgeon strode out of the chaplain's tent without allowing for Father Mulcahy to finish. He couldn't help but shoot a disgusted glance in the direction of Margaret's tent, where surely Margaret and Charles were still in the midst of their emotional reunion and probably participating in some activity that would trigger his gag reflex if he knew what it was. Grumbling to himself, Hawkeye slinked back to the Swamp to find it empty; with that, he poured his first of many glasses of homemade gin to forget about the biggest casualty in this whole disaster, that being his heavily damaged ego.

* * *

At the sight of Major Winchester's retreating form from her tent, Margaret shut and locked her door and sat in front of her makeup mirror, staring at her face. She looked at the tear-stains on her cheeks, at the puffiness of her eyes. How could she have done such a vile thing to such a good man?

Not only had she stretched the truth about her relationship with Winchester to get Hawkeye jealous, but she had left Charles behind coldly and without giving him a chance to explain himself. Her initial get-togethers with Charles had not been laced with any underlying motives; however, that first kiss with Charles in her doorway and her official announcement of their relationship were done merely as a kneejerk reaction to the rather harsh rejection by her long-time crush Hawkeye Pierce . She had effectively _used_ Charles in all of this, had taken him for granted. She had transformed that pompous, arrogant man into a victim, a victim wholly undeserving of her harsh treatment of him!

She had to make it up to him somehow, had to change her ways. Tonight's conversation indicated that Winchester was willing to continue their relationship uninterrupted, was willing to participate in some very un-posh activities just to please her. Of course, there was the bombshell that he may or may not have heard about yet, of the specific activities of her Tokyo trip, but if she laid her feelings out on the line and made herself completely vulnerable to him as she had in the past with those men she had fallen hard for, that being Hawkeye, Donald, and Frank, that Charles might be inclined to forgive her. She had to pull out all the stops because she had done a completely revolting thing in using such a kind, innocent bystander in her twisted little head games with Hawkeye Pierce.

Ooh, Hawkeye Pierce, that womanizer! He probably filled every nurse's head on the compound full of that same drivel he had spewed to her, those same sympathetic words and adorable jokes that guaranteed a swoon or two. Not only had _she_ used someone, but then she had immediately gotten her just deserts by being then used by Hawkeye! Did Hawkeye expect that tonight she would be alone and waiting patiently for him? Did he honestly believe that she would jump into bed with him again? Was that what he had come to expect in his infinite experience with practically every nurse that dared set foot at the 4077th? He was a scoundrel and a lecher, a man who put himself and his own interests above those of every woman he knew. Most likely he had already boasted to B.J. of his conquest of her.

Margaret put a hand to her lips, those lips that had been the giver and the receiver of deceit these past couple of days. She could see that she was now blinking abnormally fast, and soon her eyes filled with tears.

"I really messed up this time, didn't I, Dad?" she muttered aloud, feeling a tear slide down her cheek as she looked upwards. "I hate to say this, but I'm glad you're not here to see this." With that, she stood up and turned out the lights in her tent, the springs in her mattress squeaking as she sat down on her bed, the faintest of sobs following.

* * *

At hearing Hunnicutt state Pierce's claim that Margaret 'started it' in the case of Hawkeye sleeping with her, Winchester's face darkened considerably, his face twisted into a scowl.

"What can you expect from filthy little heathens like Pierce?" Winchester roared. "Of course he's lying to save his own skin."

"I don't know, Charles; he told me the whole story. It sounded pretty convincing. Margaret isn't Miss Perfect, you know. While she was still married to Donald, she cheated on him with Hawkeye."

Now he was being stared at incredulously by Winchester, who hadn't been aware of what exactly had happened on that fateful trip to the 8063rd.

"What—when?" Winchester blurted, stammering in spite of himself. "All she did was talk about that ex-husband of hers—he pervaded her every thought, her every whim."

"But not her every action," Hunnicutt said with a knowing look. "It happened shortly after you'd arrived, when they'd gotten stranded on their way to the 8063rd. There are feelings between them, Charles, and ever since a relationship was hinted between you and Margaret, he's been wound up like a clock, babbling about Margaret every chance he got."

Winchester clutched his forehead, shaking his head with total disappointment.

"I was doomed to fail from the very start," he muttered. "But why hasn't Pierce pursued her all this time when she's been—uninvolved? She's certainly given him ample opportunity to do so."

"Maybe at hearing about you and her was enough to push Hawkeye over the edge. I dunno, Charles; I don't know what goes through his head. But believe me when I say that even though what he did was wrong, I think it was for the right reasons—"

"I'll tell you what's going to go through his head—my fist!" Winchester bellowed, ignoring Hunnicutt's last statement. "Pierce had every intention of having her and I can easily imagine him lying about who started it. She stood no chance against that lecher's full arsenal of charm. He is finished!"

As he turned to leave the room, Hunnicutt grabbed his arm roughly. Winchester looked down at the hand on his arm and then at the mustached doctor's face.

"What is it, Hunnicutt? This better be good, for you to interrupt my attack on Pierce."

"I can't let you do it," B.J. muttered. "He told me that he loves her… and I believe him."

"My heart bleeds for you both," Charles replied sarcastically. "Now, let go of my arm."

"No."

When Charles looked at Hunnicutt, he wasn't smiling.

"What is this, some kind of bait-and-switch?" Charles stammered, chuckling nervously. "Do you not recall grumbling to me about Pierce when I first arrived here tonight? And now you're going to defend the lout?"

"Yes—that's what I'm telling you. You're not going to screw up my years-long friendship with him because you feel you have to defend the honor of a woman you were only _technically_ with for two days. I'll bet you're just using Margaret as an excuse to finally get your revenge on Hawkeye. I can tell that he really loves her, Charles. Unfortunately, it took you butting in for him to finally realize it."

"I'll have you know my jukebox selection the other night was not for the accompaniment alone," Charles said quietly.

"Whoop dee doo; tell me something I _don't_ know! You sure your real rank and name isn't Captain Obvious?"

Hunnicutt had completely changed his tune and Charles didn't like it in the least, yet he didn't feel impelled to justify B.J.'s snarky comment with a valid reply. Instead, he scoffed at Hunnicutt's sarcastic response and jerked his arm away from the mustached man.

"Tell me, Hunnicutt, why should Pierce's alleged love for Major Houlihan trump my own feelings in the matter?"

"I'm not saying he should _trump_ you, Charles; I'm just saying that he didn't do it because of you. So getting back at him doesn't make any sense."

"And you figured this out because he made some incoherent statement about love, a word of which he knows nothing? You listened intently to my ranting yesterday and last night. How can you side with—"

"I'm not siding with either of you, but I can see both of your points, is all," Hunnicutt said, grabbing Charles's forearm. "I just think exacting revenge on him isn't the best way to—"

Winchester jerked his arm away, scowling at the mustached surgeon.

"Get out of my way, inebriate."

Suddenly Hunnicutt let loose with a growl, promptly shoving Winchester towards the wall. Charles could only gape in horror as B.J. pinned him against the wall, shaking his fist in his face. The major stood on tiptoe, face losing all color, not hiding his fear of what Hunnicutt would do next.

"Don't make me knock your lights out, Winchester," B.J. snarled, his breath reeking of scotch. "Either you swear to me you'll keep your mouth shut or I'll shut it for you."

Winchester could only chuckle uneasily, watching Igor staring at him from behind the bar.

"Look at me, you coward," Hunnicutt raged, giving Charles a shove to the chest. Charles responded with an _oof_ sound, his eyes roughly the size of dinner plates now, mouth ajar with trepidation.

"I'm not a coward," Winchester muttered. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Sergeant Rizzo standing up.

"You are too, skinhead!" Rizzo jeered. "Remember when I was about to deck you at Rosie's and you had to call on your little buddies to hep you out? And you're a whole damn foot taller than me! College boy!"

"Keep your nose out of this, Rizzo!" B.J. raged, glaring over at the short man. Promptly Rizzo sat back down at his table but watched the scene before him with rapt attention.

"Not much of a nose to put in it," Winchester tittered, smiling with uneasy amusement.

"How did you know about the weather, anyway?" Hunnicutt growled, taking this opportunity of unabashed rage to extract information from the short staff sergeant. Silence met him and he yelled out again, his breath in Winchester's face. "_How_, Rizzo?"

"A really good two-way radio with an antenna that could poke a giraffe's eye out," Rizzo muttered. "Picks up the signal really good from the west. It heps that most of the weather comes from that direction. Also I got me a Korean translator to translate what I been hearin'."

"And how did you afford such a thing?" Winchester shot, turning his head to look Rizzo's way. He'd never warmed to the little Cajun man since being ripped off by him.

"As a matter of fact, it was bought with your money, from our simple interest loan," Rizzo replied with a yellow-toothed grin. Winchester rolled his eyes and then opened his mouth for a proper retort.

At the sight of Hunnicutt's fist lingering menacingly in front of his face, Winchester promptly shut his mouth and stared at the very real threat.

"As I was saying, swear to me that you're not going to try to get revenge on Hawkeye."

Winchester blinked with incredulity.

"Hunnicutt, the man had an aff—"

"Do you seriously think you and Margaret have what it takes to make it? You two are so wrong for each other it's almost funny to imagine you were together at all."

"Oh, is that right?" Charles muttered, his tone mocking. "I'm sorry; I hadn't realized that I had to pass the Hunnicutt compatibility test before I would be allowed to date. Have you ever considered filing a patent application for your test, you know, to give it a bit more impact?"

Hunnicutt rolled his eyes, his mouth set into a menacing grimace.

"Let me ask you this, Charles; if things were going so smoothly with you and Margaret, why did she take Hawkeye to Tokyo, hmm?"

"That's none of your business. Now, let go of me," Charles muttered, tired of being put on the spot in such a humiliating way. Hunnicutt's fist was soon lingering near his face. Winchester's eyes widened at the sight.

"Swear to me you'll keep your mouth shut about my telling you all this and that you'll leave Hawkeye alone," B.J. muttered.

Winchester's shoulders fell in defeat, a sigh escaping his lips. This was a conversation not worth prolonging, lest someone other than Igor and the greasy supervisor of the motor pool see him in this compromising position.

"Fine. I swear. Now could you let me go?"

"If I catch wind of you trying anything, I'm going to get all liquored up again and clock you. You can count on that."

"Duly noted," Winchester muttered, a grimace appearing on his face. At the fist leaving its close proximity to his face, he descended from tiptoe, feeling ashamed of his cowardice but realizing Hunnicutt was probably justified in doing what he'd done. Was it true that Hawkeye loved Margaret? The question was, had Pierce told Margaret that he loved her?

* * *

The two men walked back to the Swamp in uncomfortable silence, opening the door to find Hawkeye Pierce tucked under the covers, presumably asleep on his cot. Winchester glared at him as he strode to his own cot, sitting down and removing his boots.

"Must I let sleeping _dogs_ lie," Winchester muttered with a sneer under his breath in the direction of Pierce, acutely aware of a pair of angry eyes burning into the side of his face. He glanced over to see Hunnicutt glaring at him.

"Don't you dare, Winchester, unless you want to doctor a broken nose."

"Speaking of broken doctors, good luck getting up before noon tomorrow," Charles commented, giving the mustached surgeon a sly glance. "You're going to be useless if there are any early casualties."

"Don't you even _think _about pulling anything in the morning, Major."

"You mean, besides my back?"

"I mean it. Or you'll be wishing you were in that casket in Tokyo."

"I already do," Charles remarked. "I'm certain it's far more comfortable than my cot is. Really, though, who better to appreciate a luxurious velvet-and-satin bed than the deceased?" With that embittered quip, he adjusted his legs to be under the covers and lie down, disgusted with the whole turn of events.


	30. Consultation & Confrontation

**A/N: Thanks to GetOnTheIce, hippiechick19, and mary for your feedback! This is a rather long chapter!**

**

* * *

****CHAPTER 30 – CONSULTATION & CONFRONTATION**

"May I come in?"

The knocking at his door at this hour of the day was disconcerting. Had something happened? He hadn't heard any helicopters or trucks, but perhaps it was only a matter of time before they'd show up.

"Who is it?" Father Mulcahy called out, reaching a hand up to wipe the sleep out of his eyes. It was early morning, so early that it was still dark outside.

"It's Charles," the man on the other side of the door replied, his tone cranky. "I'm sorry to wake you at such an hour but this can't wait."

"I'm always here to lend an ear, day or night," Mulcahy replied in a gravelly morning voice, scooting his body around so that his legs were out from under the covers. Swiftly he stood up and grabbed his robe from the central pole of his tent and slipped it on over his pajamas. As soon as he had done so, Major Winchester entered his tent, wearing roughly the same kind of outfit. A little smile appeared on Mulcahy's face at the sight of their unprofessional appearances. Winchester quickly shut the door behind him.

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice," Winchester muttered, clearly embarrassed to be there. "I wasn't sure how much someone like you could possibly know of the subject at hand but everyone else around here runs their mouths enough to power a small generator."

"I understand," Mulcahy said warmly, indicating an open chair. "Please sit down and tell me about the subject at hand and let's see what I know."

"And you won't repeat what I have to say?"

"As a member of the clergy, I am bound by my vows to keep what you say here in complete confidence. I hope that's reassuring."

"It certainly is," Charles said with an arrogant lift of the chin, as he took a seat across from the priest. Father Mulcahy clasped his hands together in front of him and leaned forward as he sat on his bed.

"Now tell me, my son, what is it that troubles you?"

Charles balked at the question from the priest.

"Before we start, Father, I insist that you call me Charles; anything but _son_. I am not some insolent altar boy."

"Alright, Charles," Father Mulcahy replied, giving Winchester a reassuring smile. Winchester had certainly gotten up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. "Go on."

"This will probably come out the wrong way, but alright," Winchester muttered. "Father, am I not a man of many talents?"

"What?" Mulcahy stammered, clearly thrown off by the odd question. "Are you asking _me_?"

"Yes," Winchester replied, giving him a smile that Mulcahy interpreted as smug. Several seconds of silence passed before Mulcahy felt obligated to answer.

"Well, I would say you are, Charles—"

"And would you not believe that I have much to offer a woman?"

Mulcahy could only blink in confusion at Charles as he finished the question. Several seconds of silence followed before the priest spoke.

"I'm not sure where this is going, but—"

"Just a simple yes or no would suffice," Winchester replied with that same inscrutable smile. "And if you pick the latter, a short explanation would be appreciated."

"I believe you have much to offer," Mulcahy replied, blown away by Winchester's blatant attempt to get a good ego-stroking. "Why, is someone not—"

"What virtues do you think I possess?" Charles interrupted. "Do you think I'm loyal, for example? How about honest? Obedient? Empathetic? Forgiving?"

"Judge not, lest ye be judged," the priest replied with a nervous chuckle. He'd never expected Winchester to go so overboard for some praise. "I for one am not going to judge you as to whether or not you're honest."

"Forget about that," Winchester replied with a wave of the hand. "I just have one—am I forgiving, Father?"

Mulcahy blinked at the question.

"All I can go on are your actions, which don't necessarily reflect what's on the inside. Only you can answer that."

With that, Winchester rolled his eyes.

"Well, I'm not forgiving. I know that."

"Oh," Mulcahy muttered, baffled by the unexpected twist in the conversation. "I see."

"And I'm not particularly obedient or empathetic either."

Father Mulcahy could do no more than gawk at Charles's odd confessions.

"You needn't be so hard on yourself, Charles," he murmured, staring slightly below the level of Winchester's eyes as he adjusted his glasses on his nose. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to be saying or doing right now, but he wasn't about to agree or disagree with Major Winchester on such personal matters. An uneasy silence passed between them and Father Mulcahy almost wished for the easy conversation that flowed from Hawkeye Pierce's mouth early in their conversation the night before.

"Father," Charles began, "do you think life is fair?"

"Well," Mulcahy replied, squirming in his chair, "not really. Even the Bible tells us in the Book of Job that one must—"

"I have unintentionally given someone the wrong impression of me," Charles murmured. "A person who I just so happen to be… involved with."

"I see."

"Already she has the incorrect opinion of me. Our relationship, if you could even call it that, originated from an inexplicable reaction of mine that she presumes to be the norm and unusual behavior patterns that I am at best, flabbergasted by."

"Oh, is that right?" Mulcahy said, greatly intrigued by Charles's manner of spilling his guts. "I'm sure that's not the only reason, Charles. Like I said, you do have much to offer."

"You would think," Charles muttered, a ghost of a smile crossing his face at the priestly praise. "However, she doesn't appreciate my positive qualities. In fact, my usual persona is at best merely tolerated by her and yet now she believes me to be better than she because of virtues I possess in the minutest of quantities, if at all."

"I doubt that's how she normally feels about your character, Charles," Mulcahy replied with a look of sympathy. "I always thought that you two got along quite swimmingly, in fact."

"Ha. So you know who I'm talking about," Winchester muttered in an irritated voice, rolling his eyes with exasperation. "Who told you?"

"I only think I know who you're talking about," Father Mulcahy replied with a reassuring smile. "And no one told me; I've just been picking up on things." Suddenly he cupped a hand by the side of his mouth. "It's Major Houlihan, right?" he mouthed silently, to receive a grim nod from Winchester.

"What is your take on the situation? You probably also picked up on the fact that she slept with a certain chief surgeon on her little trip to Tokyo, a fact I was wholly unaware of when I went to apologize to her after her return."

"Oh," Mulcahy muttered, his face troubled. "What did you apologize for?"

Winchester's face immediately turned a shade of red and he made a pained face.

"That's not really the issue here. What she gathered from it was that I am a forgiving, empathetic person, and that she doesn't deserve me. I _would _argue that she doesn't deserve me, but namely for the reason of her sleeping with Pierce and not for these so-called virtues of mine."

"So let me understand this; are you here because you're upset that you're being highly regarded in a misdirected way?"

"Yes," Charles muttered. "I'm only appreciated when I do something out of character, but not when I behave normally."

"Oh dear; that is troubling. And this all stems from your apology to her stated in ignorance of what she'd done with Captain Pierce?"

"Not just that," Winchester muttered, feeling self-conscious as he shifted uneasily in the chair. He _had_ made himself out to be a better person by telling that little lie at the end. That fib had clinched it. "This little charade has been going on for a couple of days as a kind of wager. I'm not typically an obedient person, for instance, but I led her to believe that I am."

"I see," Father Mulcahy muttered. "So what happened after you apologized yesterday that misled her? That seems to be the straw that broke the camel's back and brought you here to me."

Major Winchester looked down at the floor, his eyes unable to lock onto anything for more than a second or two. Eventually he noticed a rather interesting swatch of tarp that had been used to patch the wall of the priest's tent and stared at it as he began to answer the question.

"I told a white lie, a trifle, really."

"A white lie is still a lie," Father Mulcahy replied, his face grave.

With that, Winchester's eyes met the priest's. He couldn't remember feeling such shame and promptly swallowed it to ask an urgent question.

"Father, the main question I have for you is this: do you think it worth my while to continue to pursue a person under the pretense that I act unlike myself?"

"I think the real issue here is, why are you doing this? Is it because you feel that she's only interested in you when you aren't being yourself?"

"I suppose so," Charles muttered, feeling rather stupid for asking such a question. "That's how this whole rigmarole began."

"And could you be guilty of the same thing?"

Winchester looked up at him, his mouth slightly ajar. What in the world was Father Mulcahy trying to say?

"What do you mean?" Charles asked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Well, I myself have noticed differences in Major Houlihan these last couple of days since her father passed away, which was apparently when you began dating her. I don't know; she's just seemed more aloof than usual, more… uninvolved with all that goes on around here. To be honest with you, until Hawkeye began insisting that something was going on between you two during that John Wayne film the other night, I would never have picked up on it."

"Is that right," Winchester replied, squirming with discomfort. "I'll have you know that I was not the one to initiate the relationship and so I cannot be guilty of the aforementioned offense," Charles began to explain. "In short, I was caught off-guard and I—I went along with it because I've always held an interest for her but had always been rebuffed by her in the past."

"And now you're finding that she's gotten the wrong impression of you."

"Yes; completely. I am not that virtuous man she believes me to be, full of compassion and forgiveness."

"You do realize, Charles, that people can change. Virtues come and go."

"I suppose that's true," Charles murmured, looking at the priest and then down at the ground. Father Mulcahy watched him intently as the surgeon swallowed rather loudly in the ensuing silence. The blond chaplain flinched when Winchester finally spoke. "And now I realize that in the process of fabricating some virtues, I let one very important one go." He stood up quickly and gave the chaplain a curt nod, an unreadable little smile on his face. "Thank you for your help, Father."

Father Mulcahy never figured the conversation with Hawkeye Pierce the night before would sour so badly and that the strangely begun conversation with the bigheaded Major Winchester would turn out to be so humbling for the blueblood—and all on Winchester's own account.

"Now, Charles, there's one more thing I'd like to say," the priest called out. "Don't go yet."

"And what would that be?" Winchester muttered, clearly downtrodden.

"Perhaps you let a virtue go in your deception but being unfaithful to someone is the ultimate act of deception."

Charles stared at the priest for a few seconds, considering the implications of what he'd said, his head tilted at an angle. Yes, it was true what Margaret had said, that she wasn't worthy of him—he already knew that. Apparently this was the way that Father Mulcahy was showing his support of Winchester. At least he could unequivocally state that he'd never cheated in a relationship. Margaret had done so twice, as far as he knew. Father Mulcahy took note of Winchester's thoughtful silence and decided to clarify his statement, lest Winchester read too far into it. More than likely, he already had.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is don't get too down on yourself."

Charles flashed the priest a wide smile of amusement.

"Now, when have I ever done that?"

* * *

After his helpful session with the camp chaplain, Charles marched across the compound in a beeline for the showers. Father Mulcahy had been more helpful to him than he probably realized, he mused. A shower was in order now, to reflect on his thoughts. Besides, he still felt rather violated from being manhandled by the usually cool-headed Hunnicutt the eve before.

Thankfully, no one was at the showers. Winchester quickly shrugged off his clothing and entered the shower stall, hoping he'd be left alone long enough to finish a nice renewal of cleanliness. In his haste to be alone, he'd neglected to tote along his phonograph. The most important thing was that he was alone to think.

The cold water stung his skin but he didn't care. He craned his neck to see that the marks on his behind were already fading. In the past several days he had become painfully self-aware and it wasn't pleasant by any means.

With a sigh, Charles rested his forearms on the edge of the shower stall as increasingly warmer water rained down upon him, steam rising off of his skin. He shut his eyes tightly, enveloping himself in the silence. Though the water was now hot, he found a chill running down his spine. How could he be falling apart, driven to seek the advice of the camp chaplain, a non-Presbyterian at that? Damn it, he was a _Winchester_, and Winchesters did not let petty rejection and failure get the better of them. And Winchesters did not seek relationship advice from Catholics, let alone one who'd taken a vow of chastity. It was that woman who'd done this to him, who'd turned his whole world upside down in less than a week's time.

Why should he get so worked up over Margaret Houlihan? Certainly he'd had his moments of rare emotion—his sorrow over his treatment of his sister's engagement to the Italian, Colonel Potter's story of his tontine with his four war buddies, not to mention the time Margaret had read the letter Mildred Potter had written her husband—those were three times in particular that came to mind.

Margaret had seen a side of him that no one in the 4077th had seen. She had brought him astounding pleasure three times over, receiving nothing in return for it. She'd shared vintage Dom Pérignon with him, conversed with him about the effectiveness of his traditionalist approaches to romance, listened to his chapter readings, and teased him with her eyes in the operating room. He'd rather enjoyed his short time with her, a change of pace, a new horizon in learning of himself and of others. He hadn't had time to properly enjoy this relationship, let alone mourn for its end. The most irritating aspect of it was that Margaret had been the one to ruin any chance of a future with him in doing what she'd done, that being Hawkeye Pierce.

Major Winchester's pursuit of a relationship with Margaret Houlihan had been a courageous yet deeply flawed effort; at least he could be proud of his persistence in keeping hope alive for a time. A cautionary note ought to be sent to his sister Honoria, warning her of the intentions of others. He had been deceitful but then Margaret had gone out and been unfaithful to him.

Charles had certainly misread Major Houlihan, just as she'd misread him. Then again, she hadn't been overly schmaltzy with him, just simply vented her anger on a strangely willing part of his body. He had served as the punching bag of her frustrations and nothing more. They'd argued almost continuously and he was always on edge to expect another conflict with the hotheaded nurse. Interestingly, though, the announcement of their so-called relationship had only come after she'd spent some time with Pierce in her tent. How could he have been so blind?

He opened his eyes with understanding, staring up at the ceiling with disappointment at his failing to realize the obvious truth of the matter. Margaret had simply been using him to make Pierce jealous! A mere nurse had _used_ Major Charles Emerson Winchester III, _summa cum laude_ of Harvard Medical School, candidate for head thoracic surgeon at Boston General!

At the sound of the door squeaking, Winchester squinted over at it, shifting his head away from the showerhead and wiping the water out of his eyes as the intruder came into view. At recognition of the trespasser, Charles's eyes narrowed, his teeth gnashing in his jaw. Hawkeye Pierce stood in the doorway in his maroon robe, a dirty pair of fatigues underneath it. Though Charles admittedly hadn't exactly been forthright these last couple of days, he could only glare at Hawkeye Pierce, that born opportunist and a shameless one at that.

At sight of a seething Charles in the shower stall, Hawkeye's eyes went wide and he began to turn around to head out of the shower tent. He wasn't ready to face Winchester just yet and by the look of Charles at the moment, he was certain that the man knew.

"Where are you going?"

Hawkeye froze in mid-stance. The tone of voice said it all; Winchester definitely knew. Pierce couldn't recall ever being afraid of the balding surgeon but at the moment he was feeling more than a bit anxious.

"Back to the Swamp," Hawkeye called out, not turning his head or moving an inch. "I can tell you need your privacy."

"Haven't you forgotten something," Winchester retorted, heavy irritation in his voice.

At that, Hawkeye began to turn around slowly, his eyes wide and sheepish as he eyed his own clothing.

"Nope," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the sound of the shower.

"And to think, I figured you couldn't be any more shameless. You've proven me wrong," Winchester muttered, giving him a knowing look.

"Fine," Hawkeye replied, anticlimactically throwing up his arms in defeat. "You know, don't you?"

"I knew all along that you couldn't keep your licentious mitts away from her."

At Charles's harsh statement, Hawkeye shrugged.

"I don't know what to say, Charles. It happened and it can't be undone."

"If you could undo it, would you?" Charles muttered, his eyes lighting up at Hawkeye's abridged confession.

Hawkeye bit his lip, his face totally free of humor.

"No, I wouldn't."

Charles blinked at the blatantly unrepentant statement. He'd expected a yes from the dark-haired doctor, followed by an unlikely explanation for everything. Now he was frowning openly at Hawkeye's curt, unapologetic reply. As he did so, Hawkeye sighed and entered the shower stall, disrobing wordlessly.

"My, you're quite the charmer, aren't you?" the major remarked, letting out a chuckle poorly hiding his resentment. "Well, you've certainly won me over with your impassioned plea for forgiveness."

"Ha, as if you'd even consider forgiving me. A Winchester does not forgive," Hawkeye replied, tossing his clothes over the side of the shower stall.

"At least _you_ realize that," Charles muttered, recalling Margaret's preconceptions of him after his apology last night. Hawkeye was confused by the vague statement and it showed on his face.

"What? Is there a St. Charles Church in Boston where you're venerated?"

He was met with a look of incredulity by the blueblood, Winchester's blue eyes widened from astonishment.

"Am I hearing this correctly or are you poking fun at _me_ right now?" Charles remarked, staring straight at Hawkeye. There was a moment of tense silence in which Hawkeye considered Winchester's words, his hand lingering by the pull to turn the shower on but his body frozen in place. After seconds that passed by like minutes, he looked over at Winchester, crestfallen.

"Listen, Charles, I'm really sorry. About everything."

"So now you _are_ asking for my forgiveness? Please pick one, Pierce, because forcing me to condemn and then forgive you within a short period of time tends to expend a lot of energy."

"I am asking for your forgiveness. Maybe it'll help soften the sting for me to tell you that this wasn't the first time Margaret and I fooled around. It happened back when she was married to Donald Penobscot. Since then she's been in the back of my mind the whole time."

"Ah, let me guess: my involvement with her brought your thoughts of her to the forefront."

Hawkeye winced before replying, taking the initiative to start the shower running.

"Maybe. But the thoughts were always there, Charles. Level with me for a minute; you realize as well as I do how hard Margaret is to forget."

"Well, for that I thank you for giving me some very unforgettable memories of her," Charles drawled.

Hawkeye let out a sigh of frustration.

"You're probably thinking that I'm not as sorry as I should be, but based on what I saw last night, you're back with her now, aren't you? I mean, it looks like what happened didn't change anything, is what I'm saying. Hell, maybe it'll even bring you two closer together in the long run. I guess I'm just not feeling too apologetic right now, being as what happened seemed to only tighten the bond between you two."

"How philanthropic of you," Charles replied, his face staying placid though his words were heavily sarcastic. "Would you like a cookie… or perhaps some of my vintage scotch?"

Now Hawkeye was clearly getting frustrated.

"Did Beej tell you? Or did Margaret?"

"I am not at liberty to disclose that information," Charles admitted with a smug little grin.

"Well, I'm guessing you found out yesterday, am I right?"

He was met with a simple nod from Winchester.

"Then why haven't you filled my bed with snakes? Or stuck a jack-in-the-box in my foot locker? Or even sucker-punched me in the face? You're supposed to get revenge. By the way B.J. acted when I told him, I figured you'd both be working together to pull something truly dastardly."

"Nah," Charles muttered, flashing Pierce a wicked little grin. Suddenly his countenance became stony. "Let me ask you a question: do you love her?"

Hawkeye froze for an instant, his eyes meeting Charles's and then staring off in the distance.

"Why? Wait, do _you_?"

Charles rolled his eyes.

"I asked you first."

Another period of silence in which Hawkeye's gaze focused on nothing in particular. When he eventually returned his gaze to Winchester, his face was solemn.

"I do. I think I have for a long time, but I wasn't totally aware of it. Huh," he said, with self-realization, now speaking aloud to himself. "I love Margaret. I love her."

Charles raised an eyebrow, listening to the man's monologue. He had been a mere pawn in this whole game of love between Margaret and the dark-haired captain. Of course, he was not about to tell Pierce anything about his being used as a way for Margaret to make her womanizing crush jealous. It was embarrassing to even _consider that _happening to someone of his status and influence.

"And you're willing to change your freewheeling lifestyle to accommodate her?" Winchester inquired.

"I'm definitely _willing_," Hawkeye began carefully, "but I don't know how well I'd do at it. I mean, I'm definitely willing to give it a shot. Ha, I can't believe I just said that all that out loud and to _you_, of all people."

"I can," Charles mumbled. "You're able to say those things because in short, you have no shame, Pierce." He stared unblinkingly at Hawkeye for a couple of moments and then sighed at the realization of something. Hawkeye was willing to alter a lifestyle that had been established over a lifetime in order to be with Margaret.

"Well, what about you? Are you willing to set aside your ego indefinitely?"

Charles glared at Hawkeye full-on.

"And _why_ would I want to do that?"

"When your nose is in the air, you think you're great, but in actuality you're _grating_." At Winchester's silence, Hawkeye shrugged, busily soaping his underarms as he did so. "You don't have to answer my question. Obviously you love her as well," Hawkeye replied. "Hell, the changes you've made in just these past couple of days prove that."

"Do they," Charles stated, feeling extremely insecure.

"Now I get it," Hawkeye muttered, his eyes unfocused. "Just the fact that you can keep your composure at a time like this is amazing, Charles. I'd probably kill you if the reverse happened. I mean, all those times I saw her making eyes at Donald, those other GIs, hell, even the corporals and generals who'd stop by, I'd feel this wave of irritation wash over me and I'd fall into this weird funk all night. I never understood why," he said with a shrug. "Now I guess I do."

"Oh?" With that, Winchester raised an eyebrow. "You were… jealous of me?"

"Eh.… " At the captain's hesitation, it was clear that Pierce didn't want to admit such a fact, and swiftly redirected the subject. "To tell you the truth, I was even more jealous of that husband of hers, Penobscot. To have her for his own, to have her promise her life to him…. Ugh, to think that anyone would ever two-time her is just—it's just crazy, you know?"

"As opposed to someone two-timing me, for example."

"Charles, I didn't mean it like that. This is Margaret Houlihan we're talking about, that sensitive, stunning blonde with a razor-sharp tongue—and lingerie to match. Can you imagine cheating on such a woman?"

"No, I can't," Winchester replied matter-of-factly. He watched Hawkeye's face fall.

"Right," Hawkeye murmured. "Well, please don't take it personally; it just kind of happened. You won't have to worry about me butting in anymore. Just lemme know when you two are through, okay? I mean, _if_ it happens, not that it will or anything…."

At that, Hawkeye squinted, turning his head at a slight angle as he watched Winchester's next moves. Rather than reciprocate with any kind of physical violence, Winchester only sighed.

"Ah," Charles said, a look of exaggerated relief on his face. "I'm eternally grateful for your putting your pursuit of Margaret on hold. I stand no chance against you." Hawkeye's jaw dropped; he couldn't believe how unbelievably serene Charles was being in light of this bombshell, and Charles couldn't believe how much truth was in his sarcastic statement.

"What the hell is going on with you?" Hawkeye exclaimed. "I just set you up to give me a good old sucker punch to the face just now, to call us even!"

"Is that what that was?" Charles drawled. "I thought that squint of yours was due to soap getting in your eyes."

Hawkeye gaped at the blue-blooded surgeon.

"Ugh, you're driving me nuts! Is Dr. Freedman supposed to get here today, because I think _I_ may be talking to him! Ugh, I feel guiltier than hell right now and you keep digging me deeper! Until now I hadn't even realized hell had a basement."

Suddenly the showers became extremely hot within an instant. Hawkeye leapt out of the way, shoving his body as tightly as he could against the opposite stall wall. Charles didn't so much as flinch, instead stepping rather languidly out of the steaming hot water.

"So apparently you get scalded in hell's basement," Hawkeye muttered, as the water returned to its normal temperature. "I don't even wanna know what goes on in hell's kitchen."

"I could tell you that," Charles said, smiling enigmatically. "That's where all the Irish are*."

At that, Charles shut off the taps to his shower and reached out for his towel, saying not a word more.

"Wait—where are you going?" Pierce asked, having not even begun wetting his head under the showerhead in light of their intense conversation.

"To the mess tent. The hotcakes, they beckon me," he added sarcastically.

"Nah, that's just the maggots wriggling around inside 'em."

Winchester sighed, pulling his towel into the shower stall and wrapping it around his waist.

"Not only have you attempted to doom a burgeoning relationship of mine, but now you're trying to doom my appetite? Spare me, Pierce."

"You know, I was gonna write a note to Margaret, telling her that I wasn't gonna bother her again while she was with you. That's why I came here. I figured I'd be left alone at this hour."

"Is that right?" Charles inquired. "You brought a paper and writing utensil into the showers? Very clever, Pierce. Why hadn't I thought of that before as a place to read a book?"

"See for yourself," Hawkeye muttered, pointing down at his mahogany robe on the floor. "It's there."

"Oh, I needn't see it to believe it; you certainly are capable of such idiocy."

"But seriously, Charles; aren't you going to talk to Margaret first? You two probably have a lot to talk about."

"That is not your concern, Pierce," Winchester replied, stepping out of the stall and slipping his robe around himself. "You've done quite enough already, thank you."

"Listen, for what it's worth, I'm sorry," Hawkeye murmured, suddenly looking despondent, as Charles smoothly slipped on his boots and clothing while in the shower stall. "It only makes me feel worse that you haven't tried to get me back."

"Well, in that case," Charles began, grabbing Hawkeye's clothes and towel and striding towards the door, "I shall relieve you of that additional burden."

With that, Charles opened the door and left the shower tent with a mischievous little smirk on his face, Hawkeye's belongings in hand.

**

* * *

****A/N: Just a chapter or two more! Please let me know your opinion! I'm still writing/reworking the final chapter and so I can be influenced rather easily! **

*Hell's Kitchen is a neighborhood in Manhattan that was mainly compromised of Irish.


	31. Miss Conceptions

**CHAPTER 31 – MISS CONCEPTIONS**

**

* * *

**Still clad in her coral-colored pajamas, Margaret flinched at the sudden knock on her door. Last night had been a night of revelations; that was for sure. First of all, Hawkeye hadn't bothered to return after his unanticipated visit the night before. On the plane home from Tokyo, Hawkeye had told her that he had to be given time to answer her properly—apparently that strange choked blurting of her name had been his answer, much to her chagrin. How could a man who always had so much to say on everything have so much trouble spitting out a few simple words? The likeliest answer was that those words didn't exist in his vocabulary. That was a problem. She needed her man's love, and it seemed that Hawkeye wasn't up for the task.

Though Hawkeye had disappointed her with his too-little too-late effort, all was not lost. Since Winchester's midnight confessions, she'd been waiting for that moment when the major would come by her tent again, the sweet sweet man who had been patiently waiting for her return from Tokyo. He hadn't been angry with her for leaving him; he had asked for her forgiveness, for God's sake! The fact that Major Winchester was actually willing to indulge her kinks opened many more doors for her to find out what else he was capable of doing... Yes, Hawkeye Pierce had missed his window; he had ruined his chances by kicking her out of bed at her most vulnerable of moments, had failed to explain himself after asking for more time. Though he was certainly no Hawkeye Pierce, Charles now seemed to be the best man for her. She held her breath at the second knock.

"Who is it?" she called out in a semi-sultry, sing-song voice. She needn't give the visitor a heart attack if it didn't turn out to be Charles… or Hawkeye.

"It's Charles."

Her breath caught in her throat. Now was the time. She would tell him of her feelings for him, tell him of her offenses against him and swear they'd never happen again, and he would then confess his feelings. In this time of consideration she didn't bother to move from her seat.

"Let me in before I start to regret this," he murmured at the motionless door, kicking a clod of snow with his boot. He was still very much in the wake of a burgeoning anger over the whole Tokyo situation. Houlihan had been very much a sexual hooligan and he couldn't get the image of her and Pierce out of his head. It was true that Pierce had been an opportunist, but it took two to have an affair and Margaret was the only one with something to lose, that being Winchester himself. Charles stood outside the door feeling both anxious and irritable, desiring only for Margaret to feel as guilty as Pierce, if not more so, about her unfaithfulness.

"Regret what?" she called out, alarmed by his choice of words.

"Please, just let me in. It's cold out here," he called out, already feeling his hair freezing to his head. Why wouldn't she just let him spit it out and get it over with? He was hungry and tired and cold and he just wanted to tell Margaret off once and for all for her having made a fool out of him, both for his anxiety-filled talks with Hunnicutt during her disappearance as well as for his ill-contrived apology last night.

At his impatient reply, Margaret scurried to the door and opened it to find a freshly-showered Major Winchester, his hair still wet as he stood in the snow in his robe and army pants and boots. She watched him shut his eyes as if attempting to dispel a bad thought, and then he took several steps into her tent, using his boot to nudge the door shut behind him. Once the door was shut, Margaret approached Charles, her arms opened up as if preparing to embrace him. He could only stare at her stone-faced, spouting his rehearsed lines.

"Margaret, I have something to—"

"Charles, I've been so blind," she interrupted, wrapping her arms tightly around him and embracing him. Utterly baffled by her behavior, he kept his hands awkwardly at his sides as she explained herself to him. "I hate that I left you here, but then again, I would never have found out what a wonderful man you truly are unless I'd done something like that."

He could only open and close his mouth wordlessly as she squeezed the breath out of him, his voice difficult to find in her outpouring of affection.

"Margaret, you shouldn't—"

"Listen, Charles, I'm all yours, completely. I can see why you have a bit of an ego; there's no denying that you are a wonderful man and there's no shame in your knowing it."

His eyes went wide at the admission, and they would have bugged out of his head if they could have done so.

"What?" he managed to say. Had she just told him that she understood his arrogance? She must have really been a floozy with Hawkeye, to be so complimentary and sappy with him now. This was overkill—or was it? Again he pictured the two of them in the bedroom of some posh Tokyo hotel and it nearly turned his stomach.

"Please forgive me for leaving you here and taking Hawkeye with me." She lifted her head up to look into his eyes. "In Tokyo I did some things I'm ashamed of and I've been regretting them every minute since."

He squirmed uncomfortably beneath her embrace, his light eyes locked on hers. She was completely amorous and vulnerable, a state he'd never seen her in before. It unnerved him, to say the least. Had she known his reasoning for coming here and was trying to steer him away from the inevitable? It was a lost cause and he had to let her know that before she went any further.

"Major, listen, I—"

"If you want to know I can tell you what all happened between me and Captain Pierce. I'd really rather not though; I'd rather talk about you. You know, I've always wanted to visit Boston. Do the nurses there get paid well?"

"Of course they do; it's _Boston_," Winchester replied, his eyes registering alarm. "Why?"

"No reason; I was just curious," she said, batting her eyes flirtatiously. "Have you heard that the peace talks are back on? We may be going home soon."

"Oh—well, I haven't heard that. When did they begin?"

"Well, if they do sign that peace treaty, what will Major Charles Emerson Winchester the third be doing next?"

The question caught him off-guard and he answered automatically.

"Haven't thought about it much, really. I'll probably return to Boston, work my way to being Head of Thoracic Surgery at Boston General." He squinted at her, perplexed. "Why do you ask?"

"Are you not going to have a family?" she inquired, looking worried.

"Well, I'd have to marry first," he muttered. "But I suppose I will at some point. Where are you going with this, Margaret?"

"Oh, well, I love kids and can't wait to have some of my own… before my clock runs out, you know?" she blurted, a big smile on her face. "I'm not sure if you've ever thought about it, but you just _have_ to have kids, if only to pass down those baby blues of yours."

"Well, any progeny of mine will have my hair—at birth, at least," Charles replied. He made a face, wondering why she had changed the subject so randomly. Before he could ask her the meaning of her random outburst, she spoke up again.

"Oh, now you're making fun of yourself," Margaret said, clearly swooning. He could feel her kneading the muscles of his back, which felt very good in spite of the awkwardness of the conversation. "Poor baby; the muscles in your shoulders are knotted up like tree trunks," the nurse murmured. "I put you through such hell these past couple of days and your poor body is paying the toll. How about I give you a nice relaxing massage to begin to make it up to you?"

"That's not necessary," Charles muttered, completely flustered. Winchester women were instructed to never throw themselves at a man, and until now Charles hadn't known what exactly that phrase meant. Besides, his stuttering sister Honoria had not the linguistic capacity to do such a thing, even if she wanted to do so. What Margaret Houlihan was doing was what unrefined women did. After a time, he found his voice.

"What's gotten into you, Margaret?"

"I've woken up," she replied quickly. "I never gave you the chance you deserved. I was wrong about you, not to mention completely prejudiced about you and your ego. But last night I realized that you're nothing but a softie."

"Margaret, stop for a moment," he said, using all the willpower he could conjure to pull her arms from his back. "I came here to tell you something," he added, slowly lowering her arms to her sides with his hands.

A quavering sigh from Margaret immediately followed, her ice blue eyes locked on his.

"Oh," she replied with an air of cluelessness he'd not seen her display before. "I hope it's something good. You don't look very happy." Was the inimitable Margaret Houlihan a literal fool in love? How dare she drop the strong will and independence he so admired in her in favor of sweet talk and silliness? Now that she had apparently 'fallen' for him, those positive traits of hers were nowhere to be seen.

He could only stare incredulously at her strange transformation from the sobbing, wretched creature the night before who had insisted she was unworthy of him to a swooning, sentimental sap. Had her romantic thoughts of his midnight confessions been overcooked overnight? She had to have been thinking of him the whole night through for her to have come to such a firm decision on the matter. Was she seriously considering marriage and children with him? Major Houlihan was unabashedly throwing herself at him. It was ridiculous, embarrassing behavior on her part.

Winchester had been faced with a choice: he could either keep up the façade of forgiveness and all other false virtues and in essence, keep her, or he could reveal his true self to her and wipe away all chances of a future with her. Even so, was this the Margaret he would have to deal with from now on, this caricature of a smitten woman? Her usual behavior toward him bordered on combative, and yet this was the opposite extreme. Apparently Margaret Houlihan knew not about moderation.

Now that Margaret had effectively thrown her positive attributes to the wind, this would be easier to do. He cleared his throat, already regretting his words before they'd even left his mouth.

"Margaret, I lied to you yesterday."

She froze in place, looking up at him with a guarded expression, her amorousness gone.

"About what?"

"About your request that I told you I would have gone along with."

She crossed her arms, her face already several shades pinker. Before she could say anything, he continued speaking.

"In the day that you were gone I assumed that your vague request involved my accompanying you to Tokyo. When you mentioned that other _subject_ last night I was completely caught off-guard."

She could only stare at him with narrowed eyes, unsure.

"So what are you saying?"

He sighed, taking a deep breath. This would be difficult to say in light of all the lovey-dovey sentiments Margaret had just rained down upon him.

"I'm saying that I did not and will not agree to do that other _thing_, even though I said last night that it was my original intention to do so."

Margaret stared at him in an attempt to read him.

"What?" she muttered, clearly in disbelief. The very basis for her renewed attitude toward him was Charles's ability to pleasantly surprise her as he had the night before. What was he saying: that it hadn't been true?

At Margaret's expression of incredulity, Winchester blinked with irritation, not wanting to repeat himself.

"I think I just made myself perfectly clear, and I most assuredly didn't stutter."

He could see color coming into her face and knew that this wouldn't end well.

"I knew it—I just _knew_ you couldn't let your hair down and try something new!" she raged. "And, worst of all, you led me to believe that you would! You let me sleep on the idea that you were going to be different! You've made a fool out of me! Ugh, you're nothing but a bald-faced liar!"

Had she forgotten her ditzy, sappy behavior only moments before? Margaret certainly had a selective memory, and the airheaded lovestruck girl was all but completely gone now. At the nurse's scathing remark, Winchester retorted in kind.

"And you're nothing but a cheat and a tease," Winchester shot back matter-of-factly, his expression utterly calm. "As you pointed out last night, it is true that you don't deserve me."

"What?" she squawked, her eyes shooting daggers. "How _dare_ you say such a thing to me, buster! How dare you?"

"Those were your words," he retorted with an annoyed air.

"It's a figure of speech, you buffoon! You're not supposed to _agree _with me!" she cried, throwing her hands up in the air. "Do you honestly think I'd tell you to your face that you're better than me? Ugh, all men are arrogant bastards! Especially you!"

Winchester wasn't about to take these insults lying down, and spoke up, his voice strong.

"So let me understand this: you are accusing me of being a bald-faced liar and an arrogant bastard."

Margaret was irate, baring her teeth as she replied.

"Did I stutter?"

"Well, I know you slept with Pierce and I can't forgive you and go back to the way things were. So now I've proven that I'm not a forgiving person or a softie, for that matter. However, it proves that you are a cheat."

She swallowed loudly at his belligerent language.

"You don't pull your punches, do you?" she murmured, blinking rapidly, obviously hurt. "I don't understand—you can't see yourself forgiving me but... but don't you care about me?"

"I cared for you very much, and my time with you, though brief, was an experience I won't forget anytime soon," he admitted. "But… this is not meant to be," he said, his eyes falling briefly and then returning to their gaze locked on hers. "You cannot expect me to live a lie, to pretend to forgive you for an unforgivable offense. We Winchesters are not prone to permanently overhaul our existing personalities when love just so happens to strike; in fact, we pride ourselves on our remarkable self-preservation."

"Wait—why did you put your feelings for me in the past tense? Do you not—"

"You aren't listening to me," Charles interrupted. "I can't forgive you. And though I try, I won't stop caring about you anytime soon."

"You could have fooled me. Ugh, look at you, just standing there, completely unaffected by me spilling my guts to you. I can't believe I just confessed my feelings to someone who never even loved me."

"That's not true," Charles murmured ever so quietly, his mouth a thin line, eyes tired. "I felt very strongly for you, in spite of myself."

He shut his mouth quickly, knowing his final statement was a mistake. Would he now incur the full wrath of Margaret Houlihan? He could feel his hair standing on end and wondered if he could actually be fearful of this woman. _Yes_, he could, and _yes_, he was.

"In _spite_ of yourself?" she retorted, seething at him. Her face was tomato red now, her fists clenched tightly enough to render her knuckles white. "How dare you—"

"Margaret," he interrupted, "your love deserves to blossom with someone far more worthy of it than I. You need that forgiving, accepting man who can work through trials and tribulations, misunderstandings, infidelity…. I'm not that man. A Winchester cannot tolerate even a single act of disloyalty, for that might mean that his progeny is not actually his own. That cannot be a part of my family's legacy."

Her face reflected incredulity as she stared with narrowed eyes at Major Winchester, her arms tightly crossed across her chest.

"What are you talking about?" she snapped irritably, largely ignoring the last part of his statement. "Now you're saying you're unworthy of my love? Just pick one already!"

"You love my obedience, my compassion, my humility," Charles began. "But you fail to see that those qualities don't actually exist in me, Margaret; and if they do, they subsist in infinitesimal amounts. I need to find someone who appreciates the positive traits I do possess… of which there are many. I for one deserve that and you deserve to love a man for whom he is, not for whom he pretends to be for a wager."

He watched her shake her head at him, a ghost of a smile on her face.

"You truly are the most arrogant man I know. Well, Major Ego, do you know who this man is that I love for who he is?" Margaret murmured ever so quietly, crossing her arms across her chest. She wondered if he'd actually tell her or if he'd go off on some story about social status and how she should find a man on her _low-born_ level.

"_Whom_," Winchester corrected, irritated by her lack of grammatical skills. She paused to stare at him but he said nothing else. It was then that she realized how bizarre this whole conversation had become.

"Forget this," she muttered, scoffing. "Why should I expect _you_ to tell me whom I should be with?"

Winchester let out a sigh, willing his eyes not to roll.

"_Who_."

Margaret threw up her arms in frustration.

"What is this, an Abbott and Costello sketch?"

Winchester could only look at her with an expression of mild disgust. Margaret's eyebrows went up with impatience, and she heard Charles sigh exasperatedly.

"The person of _whom_ I am speaking is a certain Benjamin Franklin Pierce."

* * *

Margaret's eyes went wide with astonishment, her face reddening as Winchester continued to speak.

"There was no denying it in your eyes, the way you looked at him last night when he barged in here unannounced. Your feelings for him are as plain as the frown you now have on your face."

At Charles's observation, a flood of conflicting emotions coursed through Margaret's brain and made her turn away from Charles in a late effort to conceal whatever was written on her face.

"And as much as it pains me to say this, he loves you too, Margaret," Charles murmured at her as she faced away from him. "Apparently he always has. Perhaps you regret your activities in Tokyo but he doesn't."

"Naturally," she replied sarcastically, her heart beginning to pound in her chest as she moved her hands to her hips. Could that be true? Most likely Charles was just trying to get a rise out of her and she wasn't about to fall for it. "Well, I'm done being taken advantage of by him. I've learned my lesson."

Certainly her several hours with Hawkeye had contained some of the most rapturous and exciting moments of her life. She'd felt so loved that evening, so complete when Hawkeye's arms were wrapped around her. It was the culmination of years of flirting, years of exchanging glances, years of unrequited desire. Of course, that perfect feeling that she'd finally found hadn't even lasted through the night because of Hawkeye's urge to get away from her to sleep in separate beds and take separate showers. He was an extreme commitment-phobe, one who couldn't even bear to spend several minutes more with her after that most intimate of embraces.

"So has Pierce," Winchester replied. "Which brings me to the next point: Pierce is willing to give up his philandering ways for you."

Margaret stared at the tall surgeon for several seconds without speaking, her face twisted with utter perplexity.

"Don't make me laugh," she scoffed. "Even if he did fill your head full of that garbage, do you actually believe what he was saying? I thought you prided yourself on your smarts."

"I'm not so certain that he was lying—"

"Well, then, why couldn't he tell _me_ this?"

"He will in due time. My only request is that you act surprised when he repeats what I've just told you."

"How original of him," she groaned. "Well, why isn't he here now? And why are you, of all people, telling me this, acting like some kind of matchmaker? You know, what you're telling me now isn't exactly helping your chances with me."

"I had my chance with you. As for Pierce's noteworthy absence at the present time, it's because I haven't given him my blessing," Winchester murmured. "He believes us to be together and has promised not to interfere as long as we are a couple."

"Charles, I know you say you aren't forgiving, but the fact that you're even able to tell me all this is—"

"Is proof that I am honest," he cut in, "which unfortunately doesn't make up for the fact that I am not forgiving. What you are looking for is in the showers."

She blinked with confusion.

"What?"

"Pierce," he said, smiling faintly. "He's in the showers."

Margaret scoffed loudly, crossing her arms.

"What, is he waiting there for me there? How presumptuous of him, to expect me to come crawling back to him!"

Charles rolled his eyes, knowing this wasn't the case.

"Margaret, that's not—"

"Well, I'm not falling for him again. You can just tell Captain Pierce that he missed his window. From now on I'm going to be my own woman. No more being manipulated by men. I've learned a lot since my divorce from Donald: men are more trouble than they're worth. I'm staying single for the rest of the war, at the very least."

"Is that right," Charles muttered under his breath, a sheepish look on his face. Margaret was the next to speak.

"My mother always told me to never trust anything that stands up to take a leak. She was right."

Charles willed himself not to roll his eyes at the crude comment. Ugh, Margaret could be so unrefined sometimes. It seemed that he was truly the only one on this godforsaken compound who cherished and maintained his honor.

"Thank you for helping me to see the error of my ways," she said matter-of-factly. "I guess that's it then. No hard feelings?" Margaret asked, looking up at the man in front of her, whose hands had been shoved into the pockets of his blue robe.

"No hard feelings, Margaret," Charles drawled, his face troubled by her talk of independence. Was she so dichotomous as to be either the submissive floozy or the strong self-sufficient woman he respected, but nothing in between?

"And thank you for being honest with me, as difficult as it must have been for you," she said to him, "being as you _do_ stand up to take a—"

"Please allow me to restore the dignity of this moment, Margaret," Charles interrupted with an impatient gesture of the hand. He paused a moment with eyes closed and then opened them at his recollection. "Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid, but Pride may teach me to forget thee."

"Ha," she spat with a smile. "I have no doubt about that. So, friends then?"

"Of course," he replied with a little grin. "Just be sure not to slack off too badly in the O.R. with me, lest the cycle repeat itself. I will admit it was a very interesting wager we had going."

"Ha. And I think you won it this last time, didn't you?" she murmured. "Not that it matters anymore."

"Right. I'd almost forgotten," he muttered. "Well, if you're ever in the mood for intelligent conversation and edible food, I _do_ happen to have some Devonshire pheasant back at the Swamp. You are welcome to share a can with me."

"I knew it," she said with a smile and a shake of the head, remembering the food poisoning she'd had last time they'd eaten such a meal. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

"What for? In case you've already forgotten, _I_ was the one to ultimately cut this romantic interlude short," he replied, grinning right back at her.

"Ha. Just keep telling yourself that," she retorted, smiling just as widely.

Charles couldn't help but shake his head slightly. Had she truly convinced herself that she had had the upper hand at any point in this conversation? He and Margaret were truly on separate ends of the intelligence spectrum.

* * *

Charles Winchester strode across the snow to the showers in which he had affixed Hawkeye's blank piece of paper to the door; the words "out of order" had been printed on it in Winchester's impeccable handwriting. He'd had to ensure that Pierce remained in the showers without someone entering and letting him borrow their clothing or towel. Of course, the possibility that someone would be up at this time of day was quite low, breakfast notwithstanding, and it looked as though his ploy had worked.

"Is anyone out there?" a voice yelled from the other side of the door. His ploy _had_ worked; Charles smiled to himself as he stared at the sign. The voice of Hawkeye erupted from the tent again. "I can hear you walking around—is that you, Winchester?"

With a devilish grin, Winchester opened the door widely to watch Hawkeye immediately shoot his hands down to cover himself and race into a shower stall.

"What the hell, Charles?" Hawkeye yelled as he stood inside the shower stall, his arms crossed across his chest from the influx of frigid air. "I've been stuck in here for a whole half hour! We're even now, you know."

"Since when have we ever been even, Pierce?" Charles commented. "We can't even be measured on the same scale."

Pierce gave him a once-over, shrugging as he focused back on Charles's face.

"I can believe that. Right when you'd get on, you'd break it—whether or not I was already there."

"Hold your tongue, Pierce," Winchester cautioned. "I can change my mind and just leave, you know."

"Well, if you're going to change your mind, could you leave your old one behind so I can use it as a cover-up?" Charles rolled his eyes as Pierce continued speaking. "Eh, forget it; your mind's way too narrow for that."

"If it was, I would not be able to do what I'm about to do," Winchester said with a sigh and an expressionless gaze. "Pierce, you and Margaret have my blessing."

At Winchester's remark, Pierce's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"What are you talking about? I'm not with Margaret."

"That doesn't have to be the case."

"I don't understand," Hawkeye muttered, shaking his head with utter confusion. "You're giving me your blessing but not my clothes. To be honest with you, I think right now I'd rather have my clothes back."

"Oh, well, forget I ever said it then," Charles muttered, getting ready to turn around.

Hawkeye took a few moments before saying anything else. When he spoke, it was with extreme caution. He propped his elbows up on the edge of the shower stall.

"Are you saying you two are done for good now? Who ended it?"

"That's what I'm saying, Pierce, and it was I who ended it," Winchester replied, turning back to face the dark-haired doctor. "However, there is one caveat: I told her that you would be renouncing your womanizing ways. You better not make me a liar."

"I don't even know how to make you a liar. I can, however, make you a martini, if what you're saying is true about you and Margaret. But seriously, Charles, are you being serious about this? I mean, did you have Beej as a witness?"

"No," Charles replied, perplexed. "Why?"

"Lemme get this straight; _you_ ended it with Margaret," Hawkeye reiterated. "I don't know why you'd joke about a thing like this, but if you're trying to get my hopes up for a good beat-down, I'm—"

"I'm being completely serious," Winchester interrupted. "But there is one hitch."

"Hopefully it's one I can put on her," Pierce joked, smiling unabashedly at the major.

"In fact it is the opposite of binding. It seems Major Houlihan wants to be her own woman now."

Hawkeye stared at Winchester for an uncomfortably long time from his position in the shower stall.

"Oh, is that right? And you said _you_ were the one to break it off? Sounds like you didn't have a choice in the matter, buddy."

"I am not going to argue details with you, Pierce; I was the one to end it. She's simply not my type. Let me put it this way: I've seen _oil _that is more refined than she."

"My kind of gal," Hawkeye said, his eyes glittering. "But if I'm gonna try to convince her _not_ to be her own woman, I need to know if you've run this by Beej first. He really raked me over the coals yesterday."

Charles looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Come to think of it, yesterday evening there _was_ greasy smoke wafting across the compound."

"Nah, that was from dinner," Hawkeye corrected. "I heard the cook was trying his hand at French fries."

"I see."

Hawkeye wasn't finished yet.

"Turned out, the cook tried his hand and it was better than the fries."

"Ha, I can believe that," Charles said, smiling in spite of himself. "Anyway, getting back to Hunnicutt and your concerns…"

"Well, I think he reacted to the news of Tokyo worse than you did. You should tell him that you broke it off with Margaret so he can retire his morality police badge. I'm not in the mood to leave this freezing building only to get the cold shoulder from him."

"I certainly got a shoulder from him yesterday—my chest is still sore from his shoving me in the sternum," Charles said.

Hawkeye's eyes widened.

"What are you talking about? Why would he do that?"

"After he told me about the goings-on in Tokyo, I very much wanted to kill you."

"Oh, really? Well, why didn't you? You could have gotten off at least a sucker-punch today. Unfortunately for you, that opportunity expired a half hour ago."

"Hunnicutt made me swear not to take revenge. Needless to say, the more I thought about Margaret and her… ways, the more I realized that revenge was unnecessary."

Hawkeye ignored the comment, still distracted by the idea that B.J. had immediately divulged his secret to Major Winchester, the alleged victim in this love triangle.

"Geez, he broke his promise to me only to have you make a promise to him?" Hawkeye shot. "He swore he wouldn't tell—and that was probably only a couple of hours before he told you. Where did he tell you? In post-op?"

"No, in the Officers Club. I was shoved against a wall and threatened with violence."

"So, basically, another Tuesday night for you," Hawkeye said with a devilish twinkle in his eye. "Well, Beej doesn't have a leg to stand on now—he has no right to berate either of us for anything anymore. At least, not me."

"What do you mean, at least not you? I have just as much a—"

"Are you kidding? It's fun to watch him berate you."

"Well, in his defense, he _was_ completely inebriated when he divulged to me," Winchester drawled, remembering B.J.'s plan of action. "He'll be useless until noon, I gather."

"So he's out cold, eh?" Hawkeye pressed on, to receive a nod and a little grin from Winchester. "Well, that's a shame. I think he has a date today."

"What?" Winchester exclaimed, his face twisted with confusion. "What are you talking about? A date with whom?"

Hawkeye grinned at Charles, his teeth on display, dark blue eyes sparkling.

"I'm pretty sure her name is… Karma."

* * *

"Attention all personnel; incoming wounded. Give the jeeps some room out front to keep our snow angel from becoming a casualty."

B.J. Hunnicutt was startled awake by the booming P.A. announcement and smacked his lips, turning over on his cot and planting his aching head firmly in the pillow. The P.A. rang out once more.

"Be sure to open your eyes before opening up any patients."

"Ugh," B.J. muttered in a gravelly voice. He could hear the indistinct sounds of murmuring and the squeak of a mattress. Why hadn't he heard the guttural morning voice of Hawkeye or Charles grumbling about the early call?

Suddenly a resounding smack landed in the confines of the tent. B.J.'s eyes shot open and he glanced towards Hawkeye's cot, unsure of what to expect. What he saw made his breath catch in his throat. A blue-skinned Hawkeye was lying motionless on his back under the covers of his cot, with Charles gaping down at Pierce and slapping the face of the lifeless man and yet eliciting no response.

"Wh-what happened?" Hunnicutt called out in his hangover-induced haze, watching a panicked-looking Charles looming over Hawkeye's still body.

"You never should have told me," Winchester remarked flatly, his gaze focused on the motionless body in front of him.

"Told you what?" B.J. replied as he propped his body up on an elbow, his face etched with confusion.

Charles sighed deeply, his breath coming out ragged as he shook his head slowly.

"About Pierce in Tokyo."

* * *

**A/N: Thank you to hippiechick19, Casey, and GetOnTheIce for your wonderful and thorough feedback! I really hope to hear from people for this chapter since there is one chapter left! If it's way too long, I may divide it in two, but being as I haven't fleshed it out yet, there may be a little bit of a wait! Thank you for all of you who have reviewed for this story both in past chapters and present chapters.****  
**


	32. Karma Calls

**A/N: Please be sure to read both of the chapters I posted today (chapters 32 and chapters 33). I posted them at the same time and if you miss reading this chapter, the next one may be a bit confusing.**

* * *

**CHAPTER 32 – KARMA CALLS  
**

"What are you talking about?" B.J. blurted, at Major Winchester's vague statement about a motionless Hawkeye Pierce. Upon hearing the resounding slap that Winchester had administered to the dark-haired doctor's face, B.J. forgot about his pounding hangover and was instead concerned for Hawkeye. Not only that, but Charles's thinly veiled excuse for doing whatever he had done to Hawkeye was beginning to alarm B.J. Hunnicutt.

Charles shook his head in reply.

"What do you _think_ I'm talking about? This," Charles said, helplessly indicating the man on the cot.

Hunnicutt stood up with a start, his eyes locked on Winchester's. Winchester looked very much lost and frantic at this point. B.J.'s breath caught in his throat and all he could hear was his own heart thundering in his chest.

"What did you do—" B.J. began, stammering uncontrollably as he raced to Hawkeye's side and squatted down by Hawkeye's face. The dark-haired surgeon's skin was blue and ice cold to the touch. B.J. frantically began to administer little slaps to the man's face, to see no reaction. "What did you do to him?" he yelled, his voice harsh.

"The opposite of what I usually do to patients in the O.R.," Winchester replied, slowly backing away from the cot. He watched B.J.'s eyes become huge and angry. His gaze moved to his friend's body.

"Hawkeye," Hunnicutt cried. "Hawk, wake up. Hawkeye, wake up, buddy!" His voice and breathing quavered. "Come on!"

"You should have kept Pierce's secrets to yourself," Winchester muttered bitterly with an audible gulping sound, wiping sweat off of his brow and taking a step away from Hawkeye's body. "If he'd told me himself, he might have seen it coming."

Hunnicutt leapt to his feet, his breathing erratic and face as red as a beet. How dare Winchester put any of the blame on him?

"Might have seen _what_ coming?" Hunnicutt demanded, huffing more loudly as each second passed. "What did you do to him?"

Just before Charles could reply to the man, he was interrupted by a blaring announcement.

"Correction," the P.A. blurted, "our snow angel is already a casualty of human error. Please watch your step when running across the compound to triage. No need to give it _another_ bad impression of us. And speaking of bad impressions, Major Winchester and Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt, report to the O.R. immediately."

"Hawkeye!" Hunnicutt yelled down at the still figure. He reached down and grabbed Hawkeye's hand and felt for a pulse. "Come on—this—this… can't be happening!"

"Oh, but it is, no thanks to your big mouth," Winchester remarked, watching him intently. At that, B.J. dropped Hawkeye's limp wrist and stood straight-backed across the cot from Charles.

"How can—" At that, B.J.'s voice broke. Tears clouded his vision as he looked down at his friend lying partially under the covers on his cot, the dark-haired surgeon's eyes shut and his skin alarmingly blue and ice-cold. Hunnicutt knelt down on the bed by his friend, his eyes brimming with tears. Charles squirmed as he stood above the pitiful scene.

"I'll make Winchester pay for this, so help me God," Hunnicutt muttered bitterly to his friend, shaking his head. "I never should have told him about you and Margaret."

Winchester could only shake his head slowly, acutely aware that he would soon be struck in some manner. He was soon aware of Hunnicutt glaring daggers at him, looking utterly wretched as he knelt on the floor, his nose and eyes red and the look of death in his eyes.

"That's right," a voice commented. "You shouldn't have told him." Hunnicutt's head shot back to Hawkeye, who had since opened his eyes and whose toothy grin was quickly fading at the sight of his devastated friend.

Hunnicutt could only stare at him with wide eyes that transitioned rapidly from surprise to anger.

"Hawkeye, how could you?" Hunnicutt murmured, his voice strained. "You let me believe that you… that you were dead! Your skin… How…"

"Let's just say that effective today, I've officially started the first chapter of the Uijeongbu Polar Bear Club," Hawkeye replied. "Of course, that snowman out there deserves partial credit as well as Charles stealing my clothes from the showers, but I digress…"

B.J. shook his head with utter disappointment and stood up somberly, turning away from both of his bunkmates with head hanging.

"You both went too far," B.J. murmured. "How could you—"

"I never figured you'd actually fall for it, after the initial shock, of course," Hawkeye muttered. "You could've checked my pulse, for instance. You are a _doctor_, after all. Guess I'll have to double-check the patients with a Hunnicutt tag on their toe, eh?"

"That's not funny," B.J. replied, putting his hands on his hips as he faced away from the smiling men. Hawkeye began rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand, looking up at Major Winchester.

"And geez, Charles, you couldn't have slapped me any harder if you tried."

"Well, I certainly tried," Charles replied with a little smirk on his face. Hawkeye smiled right back.

"I'm just glad you only slapped me once, because apparently two slaps gets you in the mood for romance. I'm sorry to say, but I'm just not that kind of girl."

"Maybe Charles can turn rosy cheeks into roses," Hunnicutt commented with a chuckle.

"You both are almost clever," Winchester retorted dryly. "And as much as I am wont to remain in this hovel and chat with you cunning linguists, I do believe duty calls," Charles murmured, a satisfied little grin on his face. He took a step towards the door, bowing his head as if bidding them adieu. "Gentlemen."

"Wait, Charles," Hunnicutt cried. "This wasn't—"

"This wasn't something you expected," Charles interrupted, "being as you were too busy _inadvertently_ pitting me against Pierce."

"That's not true," B.J. replied, his eyes ever-widening with the shock of Winchester's bold statement.

"How about _this_, then," Hawkeye commented, shivering as he shifted his body down the bed to be closer to the heater in the middle of the room. "You _purposely_ pitted Charles against me. Is that a more accurate statement?"

"No," Hunnicutt said. "It wasn't like that. Believe me when I say that I—"

"Eh," Hawkeye interrupted, gesturing dismissively, "no need to explain. It's auld and done and b-besides, we got you good. I forgive you, B-beej."

B.J. smiled warmly at his friend, glad for this to be over. Suddenly Winchester gaped over at Pierce, clearly unnerved.

"What do you _mean_, it's auld and done?" Winchester murmured, an uncomfortable half-smirk on his face. "I think it proper to keep the burden of guilt on Hunnicutt all day. He physically lashed out at me in the presence of my peers, and he certainly didn't welcome you back with open arms. Why are you letting him off the hook?"

"B-because I don't wanna b-be mad at him anymore," Hawkeye replied, his teeth starting to chatter, shivering like a leaf as he wrapped the blankets around him, leaning towards the heater. "I see his reasoning for b-berating b-both of us—especially you."

Winchester glared at Pierce.

"What in God's name are you doing with your voice? If this is some kind of barb at my sister Honoria—"

"My body temperature's gotta be in the mid 80s," Hawkeye replied. "I'm slowly returning to the land of the living and it's a b-bumpy road."

"Well, this isn't over by a long shot," the major stated, shaking his head. "Perhaps you can forgive the lout, but I refuse to do so."

"Are you t-telling me you're never gonna forgive him for those drunken antics?" Hawkeye commented, gesturing at his friend. "Hell, you forgave me, and look what _I_ did."

"You assume too much," Winchester retorted, to watch Pierce's face scrunch up with confusion.

"Wait a minute now," Hawkeye replied. "You told me yourself that Margaret—"

"It has nothing to do with anyone in particular." Charles stuck his nose in the air. "As you yourself stated earlier, a Winchester does not forgive."

"I thought you were gonna tell Beej about you and—"

"Ha," Charles scoffed, cutting Hawkeye off mid-sentence. "If you are attributing that revelation to my forgiving nature, then I better scrap the idea, lest you are misled."

Hawkeye froze for a minute, crestfallen. Winchester's face was resolute, and Hawkeye shook his head at the tall surgeon.

"Well, if that's really the case, I feel sorry for you."

Charles gave Hawkeye a stare of bewilderment, quickly following it up with an anxious chuckle.

"Surely you jest."

"No, Charles, I really do feel sorry for you," Hawkeye replied, the color slowly returning to his cheeks as he continued to shiver rather violently. "If you're so set in your ways that you refuse to forgive a p-person, how will you expect them to forgive you when you wrong them? And don't give me that crap about you not wronging p-people, b-because everybody does it."

Winchester considered his words carefully before speaking.

"I decided to terminate my relationship with Major Houlihan because I cannot forgive her for what she did, and so if I were to extend that courtesy to you two hooligans, I'd have to do the same for—"

"Well, why didn't you just say so?" Hawkeye interrupted, a big smile on his face. "That's alright; I can live without your forgiveness. You can too, Beej. Glad that's settled."

B.J. Hunnicutt wasn't smiling and could only stare at Charles, confusion written all over his face.

"Charles, did you just say you and Margaret are—"

"Over," Winchester said matter-of-factly. "Pierce is now the pursuant and can begin as soon as he suits up for surgery." With that, Winchester glanced over at Hawkeye, who was still shivering rather violently as his body slowly warmed up. "I do believe you are scheduled to be working with Major Houlihan today."

"G-great," Pierce replied, giving him a thumbs up. "B-but I need to stop shaking b-b-before I can operate."

"Better yet, you can simply operate on a similarly shivering patient," Winchester commented. "You'll be synchronized."

"Ha ha," Hawkeye replied flatly. "You t-two go on ahead. I'll b-be right there. I'm going to take this time to p-p-perfect my P-P-Porky Pig impersonation. Th-th-that's all, folks."

"I'm not letting you stay here by yourself, in case you actually do die this time," Hunnicutt said. "I'm staying here until you're no longer blue."

"Fine," Pierce informed B.J. as Winchester left the Swamp. They sat in silence for a time until Hawkeye found his voice. "You know, telling jokes might help in making me less blue."

* * *

With Winchester still operating on his first patient, Hawkeye Pierce and B.J. Hunnicutt strode through the doors with purpose, scrubbed up and ready to go. Colonel Potter looked up from his patient, shaking his head with disappointment.

"'Bout time you got here, boys. If my hands hadn't been tied in here, I would've been dragging you two to your operating tables. You know, those incoming wounded announcements aren't suggestions."

"And here, all this time I thought I was just doing you a favor," Hawkeye remarked to watch Potter roll his eyes good-naturedly. After replying to his C.O., the dark-haired surgeon glanced in the direction of his gurney, which was unoccupied. Margaret was currently working over at Winchester's table and hadn't so much as looked towards him when he'd entered the O.R.. Secretly Hawkeye wondered if she'd leave the major's table once his patient was brought to him. After all, she _was_ scheduled to be working with him today.

"Guess I'd better get started then," Hawkeye commented more loudly than needed, striding towards his operating table. "Anyone wanna suit me up and get me my first patient du jour?"

At Hawkeye's request, Nurse Kellye looked up from where she had been organizing the surgical instruments on their metal trays.

"I'll help you, Doctor," she replied, quickly finishing the current tray. Hawkeye shot a desperate glance in the direction of Margaret, whose back was currently towards him. Though Charles had claimed to have ended it with her, she certainly wasn't in any hurry to get back to her assigned operating table and her assigned surgeon.

After Hawkeye had been suited up and Kellye lingered awkwardly near him, he found that he couldn't take it anymore.

"Nurse Houlihan," he called out across the room. Winchester glanced up from his patient, looking at Hawkeye and then at Major Houlihan, who hadn't yet turned around to face the source of the call. Margaret's lack of response seemed to last for an eternity, as Hawkeye stared at the back of her white gown.

"Margaret." Hawkeye's voice rang out again, this time far more insistent. She turned around abruptly upon finishing her task of retracting a colon, annoyance in her eyes.

"What _is_ it, Captain Pierce?" she replied, her tone of voice a hair away from irate.

"In case you need reminding, you're _my_ nurse," he replied. She was not fazed.

"In case _you_ need reminding, Captain, we started surgery a good twenty minutes before you bothered to stroll in here. The early bird gets the worm."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Hawkeye retorted with a sarcastic air, leaving his empty operating table and heading Winchester's way. "I'd hardly call you a worm. However, I _could_ associate Charles with the bald eagle."

Colonel Potter glanced up briefly to watch the strange exchange. Captain Hunnicutt and Major Winchester remained glued to their jobs, remaining silent in the process. Hawkeye pushed past the scurrying nurses and orderlies to make it to Margaret's side.

"Margaret, I need you… over at my table."

"I'm sorry, Pierce, but as you can see, I'm needed here," she commented coldly, gesturing at the bloody shrapnel-filled guts of Winchester's patient. "You don't need me; you don't even have a patient yet."

Major Winchester listened to the doctor-nurse encounter with an air of indifference, keeping his hands occupied with his patient while he absorbed that they were saying. Certainly if Pierce couldn't do any better with the blonde nurse today, Charles was going to probably get shoved yet another time in the Officers Club, but this time by Pierce. He made a mental note to avoid the Officers Club tonight.

"Charles, do you need Nurse Houlihan anymore?" Pierce suddenly asked the taller surgeon. Winchester balked for a moment, startled by the sudden blunt question. Certainly the question was laced with a deeper meaning. Charles didn't need Margaret anymore, but he did need Major Houlihan at the moment to help him repair a badly damaged colon.

"In fact I do, for the purpose of this perforated bowel, Pierce. When I am finished with this patient, I will send Major Houlihan over to you."

"Now, listen here," Margaret suddenly growled, shaking her bloody gloved finger at Winchester, "the only way I'm going to allow you to order me around is if you outrank me. And being as neither of you outrank me, I'm making my own decisions. Pierce, I'm sure Nurse Kellye would be glad to help you."

"You have no idea," Hawkeye muttered, rolling his eyes. He recalled those days when the Hawaiian-born nurse had a full-blown crush on him and hoped Margaret would read into his words and get jealous. God knows he'd been jealous of Charles several days ago.

"It sounds like you have help after all," Margaret muttered, focusing back on Winchester's patient again and applying retraction to the man's bowel. "Now, go away; I'm busy."

Pierce could only gape at her, his mouth slightly ajar, as he turned around and began walking back to his table. From this distance he could see that his patient clearly had a chest wound, which had been haphazardly patched up with now blood-soaked gauze. This was Winchester's specialty, but then again, in meatball surgery Pierce had learned to operate on any and every body part.

As he strode quickly across the room back to his operating table, Pierce's mind reeled. What the hell did Charles say to Margaret? Why was she being so cold and callous towards him? Hawkeye could barely contain himself, but for the sake of propriety, he'd have to thank Charles later for whatever he'd done to make Margaret this way.

* * *

"What do you want?" a female voice muttered crankily. Hawkeye Pierce looked up from his second patient of the day, having stitched up his first patient and opened his second patient in the time it took Charles to finish the one patient. He already knew who was standing next to him.

"Well, I can't tell you that now, for lack of sounding professional," Pierce said, grinning devilishly, "but while you're here, could you retract this bowel? There's so much shrapnel in this guy that this could very well be the reincarnation of Lead Belly himself."

At that, he pointed to a region of the intestine and soon Margaret had retracted the organ for him to access the shrapnel buried deep within his patient's abdomen.

"Lieutenant, you may go back to organizing the trays," Margaret told Nurse Kellye, who had been helping Hawkeye in Margaret's absence. "I can take it from here."

"I thought you'd never get here," Hawkeye said with a smile as Kellye resumed her previous job. "By the time Charles gets done with a patient, he's made him _im_patient."

She rolled her eyes at the dark-haired doctor but said nothing more, merely handing him his surgical instruments and occasionally applying suction or retraction to leaks and stubborn organs when called to do so.

* * *

By the time they'd begun working on their twelfth patient, it was late evening. The sun had since set and they hadn't even realized it during their stressful jobs. Forty men had gone through the O.R. today and post-op was full of patients slowly regaining consciousness and nurses bustling about checking up on their vitals. The operating room itself was significantly less crowded. By this point in the day, Hawkeye was clearly agitated by Margaret's silent state. All day he'd tried to say flirty things and conversation laced with double entendres, but she largely ignored him.

"Aren't you and Chuckles finished?" he finally said. "The way you're acting, it's like you've got something to prove to him."

"Like what?" she said, her expression bordering on annoyed.

"Like you can control yourself around me."

She looked affronted.

"Isn't that what I'm doing?"

"Ah," he began, shaking his gloved finger at her, "just keep telling yourself that. In reality, you're undressing me with your eyes."

"How dare you accuse me of such indecency," she said with a scoff, frowning at him. He simply shrugged at her.

"Hey, I call 'em as I see 'em," was his smart-alec reply.

"You're a legend in your own mind," she muttered, bitterness tingeing her voice. "Besides, I've already seen you undressed several times," she said, "and you're just… well, gawky."

"Gawky?" he squawked a bit too loudly, disturbing Colonel Potter and B.J. Hunnicutt, who had tables on either side of his operating table. "Me, Gawky?"

"Gawky Hawky," Hunnicutt commented with a smile. "I have to admit; it _is_ a bit catchy."

"If I catch you calling me that, Beej, I'll leave you _gawking_ at what I'll do to you," Hawkeye cautioned, not happy to be insulted. Suddenly he turned to Margaret, the silliness having left his face. "What's gotten into you today, Margaret? At first it was kinda fun watching you play little mind games but this has gone too far. Was it something I did?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm calling off all men until the end of the war," Margaret replied matter-of-factly. "Don't think I'm playing mind games with you in particular. You're no different than the rest."

"Would you two pipe down and focus on what should be the main attraction here?" Colonel Potter gruffly called out. "…that being your patient." He shook his finger at them. "Don't make me separate you kids."

"Aww, Dad; I was just getting to her," Hawkeye remarked, to see Margaret roll her eyes at him. Potter ignored the surgeon and turned to his company clerk, who was helping Nurse Kellye wheel the surplus tray tables against the wall.

"Klinger, how many more wounded are waiting in pre-op?" Potter called out, to watch Klinger quickly leave the room and return in no time.

"You'll be glad to hear, Sir, that what you see before you is the last batch of 'em."

"Thank God," Margaret muttered, sighing loudly. Hawkeye sighed as well, though for a completely different reason.

* * *

**Don't forget to read the final chapter (chapter 33)! I would have put them together but it would have been far too long! Leave any and all feedback you may have!**


	33. Deja Vu, Again

**IMPORTANT: Please be sure to read chapter 32 if you're just finding this new chapter. I posted both chapter 32 and 33 on the same night (2/15/11). I would have had one chapter, but it would have been far too long. This chapter's already long enough as it is. Please make sure to read chapter 32 before reading this chapter, if you haven't already done so.**

**

* * *

**

**CHAPTER 33 – DEJA VU, AGAIN  
**

With a pained expression on his face, Winchester held up with his fork a dehydrated piece of mystery meat that was roughly as hard as dry dog food and the color of mud. So this is how he was repaid for his selfless job: with inedible rations that could hardly be perceived as food. He sat at a table in the mess tent with Hunnicutt, Potter, Klinger and Mulcahy as they courageously attempted to stomach their meals.

"If you're going to bite into that," Hunnicutt said with a wince, indicating the meat, "please give me enough warning so I can shield my face from your flying teeth."

"Ha ha," Charles retorted in a monotone. "Please, Hunnicutt, I implore you not to make this appalling excuse for sustenance worse than it already is."

"Winchester, that looks mighty similar to a spleen I had to remove yesterday," Potter murmured, squinting at the meat as Winchester rolled his eyes.

"I think you're right, Colonel Potter," Mulcahy chimed in, pointing at the item with immense concentration. "Isn't that a piece of shrapnel right there?"

Klinger was next to comment, his nose lingering far too close to the food item. "Something doesn't smell right about that, Major. It has a metallic odor to it."

"Ugh. Well," Winchester said with a grunt, "I believe congratulations are in order, everyone." The tall surgeon looked disgusted as he promptly shook his fork free of the brown thing. "You have all officially spoiled my appetite."

"What are you talking about?" Hunnicutt remarked with a big grin. "Your appetite was spoiled from birth. That just goes to show you that silver spoons should never be kept in the mouth."

"A silver spoon would certainly taste better than this," Winchester retorted. "At the very least, it'd be more chewable."

The three men watched Winchester as he stood up and lifted a leg over the bench.

"Where are you going?" Klinger inquired.

"Back to the Swamp for a taste of civilization."

"What do you mean?" the company clerk remarked. "Taking a bite of these mashed potatoes gives you a sense of what concrete would taste like." At that, he lifted a spoonful of the grayish mixture and shoveled it into his mouth. "And concrete _is_ the foundation of civilization."

"Klinger, your consumption of that mixture proves that you are indeed a _block_head," Winchester said with a sneer.

Before Charles could retreat back to the Swamp away from the nauseating stench of the pseudo-food, Hawkeye rushed into the mess tent looking worse for wear. He'd completely lost track of Margaret yesterday after the exhausting round of casualties that took up most of their day. In the wake of the long shift the day before, the Swamp was still silent shortly before lunchtime, with Captains Pierce and Hunnicutt and Major Winchester catching up on their sleep. Even though Pierce had gotten the most sleep out of the three of the Swamp's inhabitants, he still looked ragged and extremely sleep-deprived.

Upon scanning the little crowd at the table and in the remainder of their makeshift cafeteria, Hawkeye found his quarry to be noticeably missing. Had Margaret gone AWOL?

"Where's Margaret?"

"Need you ask, Pierce? Clearly she's not here," Winchester remarked, gesturing to indicate the Houlihan-less tent. Hawkeye was not satisfied with the major's answer.

"Did anyone see where she went?"

"She wasn't here," Mulcahy commented, his mouth half-full of corn. "Unless she left before I arrived, but I don't think that's the case."

"I know where she is," Klinger blurted. "She's in my office."

"What's she doing there?"

"I dunno. I didn't ask questions."

Before Klinger could say anything more, Hawkeye disappeared from the mess tent.

* * *

The door opened with a squeak and Margaret made a dismissive gesture without looking in the direction of the intruder, her other hand clutching the receiver of the compound's phone.

"What are you doing in here?" Hawkeye asked her, approaching her steadily, a mission in mind. She didn't turn to look at him, instead giving him the same dismissive wave of the hand. Hawkeye grabbed the waving hand. She glared at him, shaking her head.

"Can't you see I'm on the phone?" she whispered in a raspy tone, jerking her hand away. He gave her a look of hurt.

"With who?"

"_Whom_," she hissed.

"I've never heard of _Whom_," Hawkeye said with a goofy grin on his face. "Lemme guess; he plays right field for the St. Louis Wolves; am I right?"

Frowning at him, she held the phone away from her head and formulated a proper reply.

"Ha ha," she muttered. "Actually, I'm on the phone with an operator in West Virginia."

He blinked with confusion.

"Why?"

"Because."

He shook his head, annoyed at the terse answer but still smiling.

"Come on, Margaret, the suspense is killing me. If you get off the line right now, I'll be sure to get you off in no time."

Predictably, she rolled her eyes at his blatant flirtation. He was utterly bewitched by this behavior as he'd been for most of yesterday. _This_ was the Margaret he wanted—the no-nonsense, cynical nurse with a penchant for breathtaking kisses that came out of nowhere. At least she wasn't insulting his build today.

"I'm trying to find Maria," Margaret finally sighed.

"Oh," Hawkeye muttered, not completely understanding. Margaret knew he would be asking more questions, and didn't feel like continuing this predictable exchange for much longer.

"She's the woman that Lieutenant Stevenson wanted me to get in contact with."

After a moment of consideration, Hawkeye remembered the pilot who had suffered a heart attack.

"Right," he replied. "But that can definitely wait 'til later, Margaret."

"No, it can't."

"I came here to tell you something, now that we're finally alone," Hawkeye blurted. "I know that you and Charles aren't together anymore and so now I—"

"Shh," she cautioned. "Hello, Mr. Stevenson. My name is Major Margaret Houlihan. Are you related to a Lieutenant George Stevenson?"

There was a pause as she received the answer. Her face fell.

"I see," she murmured. "Well, have you heard of Lieutenant Stevenson?"

Another pause.

"I see," she replied. "Thank you for your help." With that, the connection went back to the operator and she sighed aloud.

"No luck?" Hawkeye asked.

"Shh…" She held up a finger. "Yes, could you connect me with another Stevenson in Wheeling? I'm sorry that I've had you connect me with four of them already, but could you try—"

A pause, as the operator presumably interrupted Margaret.

"I'm trying to find the next of kin of a pilot who died in Tokyo," Margaret told the operator. "Before he died, he made me promise that I'd relay some information to a woman he knew, but I don't know her last name. I figured starting with his family would be the best way."

Another pause.

"Alright, thank you."

"Come on, Margaret," Hawkeye whined. "Everyone's in the mess tent right now."

"So?" she retorted without looking at him. A finger went up again. "Hello, Mrs. Stevenson. Are you by any chance related to a Lieutenant George Stevenson?"

Suddenly Hawkeye grabbed the phone out of her hand and before she could say another word, he hung it up. Margaret whirled around in Klinger's chair to face Pierce, irate that he had disconnected her from her search.

"How dare you disconnect me during an important call!" she raged, standing up with fists balled as she pushed the chair away from her. "I _promised_ Lieutenant Stevenson that I'd—"

"I don't care what you promised him," Hawkeye remarked languorously, taking a step forward so that he was towering over her. She'd frustrated him completely and he was now finished with the light-hearted flirtation, which didn't seem to be having its intended effect on Margaret. She did not so much as back down a step though Hawkeye had effectively blocked her in at the corner of Klinger's desk. He awaited a slap from her, but it didn't come.

"Of course you don't care!" she raged, planting her balled fists on her hips. "You men know nothing about keeping promises. All you do is make them and then turn around and break them when you've got what you wanted!"

"That's just not true," he replied, shaking his head at her.

"And why isn't it?" she said, grinning haughtily, her chin in the air. "I can't wait to hear your reasoning on his."

Hawkeye shrugged and his eyes, holding a kind of tiredness about them, locked on hers and didn't waver.

"I can't make you any promises, Margaret."

Immediately her face twisted with confusion and she glared up at him, self-consciously crossing her arms across her chest.

"I didn't ask you to make me any promises," she replied, swallowing her frustration. "What are you blathering about?"

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, I don't like promises."

"Well, I do," she cut in, shaking her head. "I want the assurance that I won't be left on a whim. I want to know that my man is as devoted to the relationship as I am. You can't do that for me and I can't have that."

Hawkeye sighed with exasperation.

"Do you really think a promise from me is going to get you that stuff? I mean, you got the ultimate promise from Donald Penobscot—wedding vows—and look how that panned out. What I'm saying is you can't expect a relationship to be self-sustaining based on a promise. Life is one big wager and there's no way of pinning people down with words."

"If this is your way of telling me you're now dating one of my nurses, don't bother," she said. "And don't flatter yourself in thinking that I care that you've moved on."

"I don't want any of your nurses," he muttered lowly, his face solemn. "I want you."

* * *

The sound of an approaching jeep startled the group that had been struggling to eat a typical mess tent lunch. Klinger immediately stood up and left the tent to greet whoever had arrived. Colonel Potter, B.J. Hunnicutt, and Father Mulcahy were left in relative silence until it suddenly occurred to Colonel Potter who might be outside.

"I sent for Dr. Freedman the other day," Potter commented with a grim smile. "I'll bet that's him."

"What for?" B.J. asked. "I don't remember you doing that."

"It was for Major Winchester and his peculiar behavior in the O.R. lately. I didn't know what to think when he started apologizing like some kind of condemned criminal, except that he'd gone off his rocker."

"I don't know; I thought it was very good of Major Winchester to take responsibility for his past behavior," Mulcahy remarked, smiling at B.J. and Colonel Potter. "He's starting to see that no one's perfect, not even him."

"That's blasphemy, Father!" B.J. cried, covering his ears and looking around the tent with mock panic. "What if he were to hear you?"

"Actually, I think he'd agree with me," Mulcahy responded.

"Well, Padre, if it's true what you say about Winchester starting to see his own insignificance in this world, we won't be needing Dr. Freedman."

Before the chaplain could say anything more, Klinger came into the mess tent with the visitor.

"Sidney!" Colonel Potter exclaimed, standing up and striding over to the curly haired psychiatrist. "Good to see you."

"It's good to see you, Sherman," Dr. Freedman replied.

"Geez Louise, you really got here fast," Colonel Potter said. "Good to see that the snow isn't hampering travel anymore."

"Is there someone I should be seeing?" Freedman said, his eyes scanning the room. "Corporal Klinger told me it was urgent."

"These things sometimes have a way of working themselves out on their own," Colonel Potter replied, patting the doctor on the back. "At least, I think they have. Anyway, while you're here, would you like to try some of my 1931 scotch? You won't regret traveling all this way once you've had a sip of that stuff."

At that, Potter began to lead the man away from the table, as they spoke in low tones to each other. B.J. and Mulcahy watched as Klinger fidgeted nervously.

"You headed back to your office?" Hunnicutt inquired.

"Major Houlihan's in there and she told me to leave her alone," he replied with a shrug. "I guess I have to find something else to do for the time being."

"Why don't we play a friendly hand of poker?" B.J. suggested to Klinger and Mulcahy. "It'd be a good way to forget about what all we've eaten."

"How can it be called _eaten_ when it can't even be digested?" Mulcahy commented.

"Right," Klinger muttered, looking uncomfortable. "Unfortunately, I think I'm going to get a very strong reminder of in a day—or two, more than likely," the Lebanese man remarked, patting his stomach gingerly. "I'm gonna be reserving the latrines until I deliver this baby."

* * *

In the dim light of Klinger's office, shadows cast across his furrowed brow, Hawkeye Pierce looked as serious as Margaret Houlihan had ever seen him. There had been a very awkward silence ever since Hawkeye had told Margaret he wanted her.

"Do you have nothing to say to me?" Hawkeye finally blurted, after the tension became too much.

"I'm sorry, Hawkeye, but that isn't good enough for me," Margaret replied, shaking her head. "I know what I want and it's more than what you can give me."

"Well, if my name is anywhere in the list of things you want, I'm right here, you know."

Margaret looked up at him, wanting so badly to just give in but knowing that was the wrong thing to do. It was only yesterday that she had sworn her independence from manipulative men, and when it came to manipulative men, Hawkeye took the cake. She could see that Hawkeye was trying to make himself appear vulnerable right now, but she attributed it all to a ruse, just another one of his little games.

"What did you and Charles talk about today?" Hawkeye asked. "Did he say anything about me at all? I'm starting to believe this is just part of an elaborate scheme for him to get back at me. I wouldn't be surprised if you two are still together."

"For your information, I am no longer with Major Winchester, and it has nothing to do with you," she replied coldly. "Not everything's about you, you know."

"I know that," Pierce replied huffily. "Now, if _you_ could be all about me, that'd be more than enough." His frown had since turned into a smile and a wink. "Come on, Margaret; what did Charles say about me?"

"Not much, really," she admitted, feeling embarrassed by all that she had discussed with Winchester. "He did say that you were willing to try to stop your womanizing ways for me. God knows that's impossible."

"Ah, but then, you haven't seen me try," he replied, holding a finger up. "Why don't we make a deal right here and now. What do you say?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, confused.

"What kind of deal?"

"I am willing to lay off other women if you'd be willing to… cut out a particular habit of yours."

Her face turned red and she immediately looked self-conscious.

"What habit? Don't you dare say a word about my hair. It's been blonde since I was old enough to know what bleach was and I'm not changing it for—"

"This habit has nothing to do with your hair; it has to do with your sappiness."

"What do you mean, sappiness?"

He hesitated, searching for a gentle way to explain it.

"The lovey-dovey talk you do. You're such a tiger, Margaret—a goddess, seductress, temptress… you name it—but then after it's all over, you get all needy and clingy and it drives me nuts."

Her mouth dropped open at the statement, but she collected herself quickly.

"Well, I don't like it when you get all distant and weird after it's over, desperate to get away from me."

Hawkeye shrugged, sticking his hands in his pockets.

"I only did it because of your lovey-dovey talk. You've done it twice to me now."

"Oh, is that right?" she retorted in an ever-increasing growl, her face reddening with anger. "Well, don't worry; you'll never hear it from me again!"

He beamed at her toothily then, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Promise?"

She scoffed at him, holding her jaw open in exaggerated shock. Her hands left her hips, one hand rising up to administer a playful slap. The chain of events that followed had no way of being predicted.

Hawkeye saw the hand as Margaret readied it to most likely slap his shoulder, and grabbed it, holding onto it without letting go.

"Why did you stop me?" she muttered self-consciously, attempting to wrest her hand from his ironclad grip. "I wasn't going to hurt you."

"It's too late for that."

Margaret let Hawkeye hold her hand in mid-air as she flashed him a look of confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

"You're writing me off before even giving me a fighting chance. I can't promise you the moon, but I _can_ stay with you all night, provided you uphold your end of the deal, and of course I'd—"

"Wow," she muttered. "You're willing to fall asleep in the same bed as me, provided I alter my personality? That's a deal if I ever saw one!" Margaret's sarcastic words sounded awfully familiar to her and then she realized why—she had expected the exact same thing of Charles. She had wanted him to act unlike himself and hadn't made a counter-offer. And now Hawkeye was doing the exact same thing to her!

"Ugh, you didn't let me finish," Hawkeye replied, exhaustion evident in his features as he released her hand. "I was just trying to compromise. You don't like my flirting with other women and I don't like…" He gulped as he watched the bones of her jaw moving as she gritted her teeth. "…well, you know. I came here today to tell you that I'm willing to behave myself so that we can give this whole relationship thing a shot. You're too important to me to be two one night stands."

"You know as well as I do that you're not relationship material," she murmured, recalling her ridiculous demands of Winchester, who was closer to what constituted relationship material. Even so, she'd wanted Charles to morph into her perfect man in the span of three days. A look of despair came across her face as she looked up to see Hawkeye frowning down at her. "And to tell you the truth, Hawkeye, maybe I'm not either."

His brow furrowed with concentration as Hawkeye stared down at Margaret, their bodies almost touching.

"Let me be the judge of that."

"How can you just burst in here and expect everything to be okay?" she fumed in response, throwing her arms up in exasperation. "I hated you, Hawkeye, and I think I still hate you for what you did. If there hadn't been a funeral the next day, I would have been long gone."

"You know what?" he replied, his face moving from her face to the floor and back up again. "I hate me too."

* * *

Suddenly Hawkeye and Margaret lunged for each other, their lips uniting forcefully in the dim office. Before long, he was pushing the nurse backwards, shoving her against Klinger's desk with wild abandon. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him fervently, her lips and tongue deepening the kiss, his gray-flecked stubble scratching against the smooth skin of her face. He wrapped his arms around her back and squeezed the breath out of her as his lips delved into hers, his tongue tentatively extending into the warm recesses of her all too willing mouth.

"Ooof," she muttered mid-kiss, having struck her spine against something hard on Klinger's desk that clattered onto the surface of the desk. Hawkeye pulled away from her, a look of concern on his face.

"What's wrong?" he asked her. She looked stunningly beautiful at the moment, her chest heaving as she breathed heavily, her lips swollen and red, a ruddy sort of rash on her chin from rubbing against his unshaven face.

She looked up at her kissing partner, whose brow was etched with concern, his piercing dark blue eyes staring right at her. He was clearly breathing more quickly and as her eyes scanned his body from head to toe, she could see the telltale sign of his interest.

"I just hit my back on something," she said, feeling butterflies in her stomach at the sight of a lovestruck Hawkeye Pierce in front of her with his hair all mussed up, panting after their passionate kissing session.

"Do you wanna go somewhere else?" Hawkeye murmured self-consciously.

"Eh," she began, unsure, "I told Klinger to stay away from here. Everyone else is eating, as you said, and there aren't any casualties. Staying here is probably best for now."

"Lemme make sure the coast is clear first," Hawkeye said. He pulled away from her to run over to the door to the O.R. The large room was empty. Next he headed over to Colonel Potter's office and glanced in. It was empty as well. Smiling toothily, he sauntered back over to Margaret and placed his hands on her waist.

"You planned this all along, didn't you?" he said, an utterly mischievous grin on his face.

"Th-that's not what I was saying," Margaret stammered, clearly flustered by the accusatory statement. "I had no idea that—"

Hawkeye placed a finger on her lips, effectively silencing her.

"I can think of far better ways to spend this borrowed time than bickering back and forth," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Now, where were we…"

* * *

"What the hell?" Rizzo muttered, as he regained consciousness from underneath a jeep. His radio lie next to his head and he reached his arm over and grabbed it, pulling it close to his ear. That noise he'd heard was most certainly a moaning sound accompanied by kissing. The greasy mechanic smiled as he lie underneath the vehicle. "I knew I was smart in gettin' this," he murmured to himself, patting his expensive new two-way radio. In the dark, he couldn't tell that the device wasn't even switched on.

* * *

Igor stood in the kitchen, his hands on his hips, glaring at the camp cook.

"I could barely pass out the meat today," the private grumbled. "I couldn't even get a fork in it. I'm sorry, but I can't be your scapegoat anymore. Can you not make the meat any softer than granite?"

"Well, it's right there; fix it," Sergeant Zale grunted, indicating a large lidless pot by Igor's hand. Igor couldn't even smell the meat, for there was an open bottle of vinegar sitting on a shelf above the pot, its strong acidic odor wafting through the kitchen. He rested his hand on the shelf, staring down at the square brown food.

"_Yes! Right there_!" a female voice blared over the P.A.. "_Yes!_" she cried, panting between words. In the background, a man's rhythmic grunts were muffled but audible.

"Who said that?" Igor questioned, glancing suspiciously around the otherwise empty kitchen to hear a faint panting. After hearing no verbal reply, he turned to Sergeant Zale. "I thought you were the only one who knew your way around this kitchen," Igor commented. "There's no way a woman would let the food be so—"

"That wasn't from the kitchen; that's the P.A.," Zale replied with a bored air.

"_Ahh, wait a second_," a female voice on the P.A. boomed. "_Let me readjust. Right there._"

"_Sorry about that_," a male voice replied after a couple of seconds. "_I got carried away there for a second. I can't help it when I'm with you_."

"What the hell is that?" Igor asked aloud, scratching his head at the strange muffled conversation from above.

"It's two people having sex," Zale commented matter-of-factly, "just interrupted by that guy's God-awful line."

"What?" Igor blurted, stumbling. Before he could do anything, the entire bottle of vinegar toppled into the meat, with gurgling sounds and the strong odor of vinegar filling the kitchen as it emptied into the giant pot of meat.

"Well, you've gone and done it now," Zale remarked. "Good luck passing that out at dinner tonight, Igor. You can't blame me this time."

* * *

"Ahh! More! Yes!" Margaret cried, as Hawkeye drove into her again and again as they lay on Klinger's bed, which they'd haphazardly covered with a sheet. It was their half-hearted attempt at maintaining cleanliness in their whirlwind of passion.

"Lemme kiss your hot lips," Hawkeye replied huskily, craning his neck to kiss Margaret and she responded in kind. After he'd had his fill of her full lips, his hands moving over her bare body with need, he broke the kiss. He smiled toothily at her then as he lie atop her, his eyes heavily lidded, hair drooping into his face. She felt a swoon coming on.

It was then that he found his voice again. This moment was pure catharsis, the moment he'd been waiting for ever since he first laid eyes on Major Margaret Houlihan. The combination of Frank Burns and his own love of freedom and fear of attachment had delayed this moment for far too long. His voice came out in a low murmur. "You're mine now, Hot Lips."

"Don't call me that," Margaret shot irritably, annoyed that he'd temporarily ruined the moment. "I'm not some kind of sex object. I want respect."

"I respect you," he replied in the sincerest voice possible, pulling himself away for a moment. "Look, I'm even standing at attention for you."

"Ha," she said, a laugh emerging from her lips at the sight. Smiling toothily at him, she reached out and pulled his hips back onto hers. "Get over here, you."

* * *

Colonel Potter and Dr. Freedman paused mid-sip and stared up in the direction of the P.A. They had been discussing the death of Margaret's father and the odd behavior of Major Winchester that had prompted the colonel to send for the psychiatrist. Their previous conversation was all but forgotten at the intimate conversation being broadcast over the P.A. system.

"What in name of Louis L'Amour is that?" Potter gruffly commented. Dr. Freedman cleared his throat self-consciously before explaining.

"I think that would be—"

"I know _what_ that is, Sidney, but I'm having trouble understanding _why_. Is this some kind of sick joke?"

Sidney could only smile at the colonel, taking another sip of the vintage scotch.

"If it's not a joke, I know two people who are going to be embarrassed beyond belief. I may be here for a reason, after all."

* * *

At the revealing conversation streaming from the P.A., Klinger, Mulcahy, and Hunnicutt froze in mid-game just as Mulcahy was dealing another hand of poker. They could only stare at each other as the couple spoke to each other. After a time, it was clear that they were getting back down to business.

"_Hawkeye!_" a woman's voice huskily cried out over the P.A.. At that, B.J. stood up and shoveled a couple of dollars into his pockets, preparing to leave the mess tent.

"_Margaret!_" a man's voice responded. Hunnicutt grimaced.

Klinger shook his head despondently. "Damn, I should make Major Houlihan clean my office. No wonder she didn't tell me what she was up to."

Father Mulcahy covered his mouth in surprise at the sexual sounds blaring on the P.A. and stood up with great discomfort. "And to think, when I first starting hearing their voices, I'd have guessed that they'd put on the Bickersons. Have you ever heard that radio show? Just cracks me up every time."

"Don't worry, Father," B.J. said, patting the priest on the back. "I don't think they meant to broadcast themselves, especially not to you. I'll be right back. You should protect your virgin ears from this until then."

"Hey," Father Mulcahy replied, "I wasn't ordained until I was twenty-five. I'm not completely clueless, you know."

"Right," B.J. replied, wincing. "Please don't put pictures in my head. You're a Father, not a lover."

* * *

Charles Winchester began to choke on the pearl-like fish eggs at the sound of the very familiar voices over the P.A. He'd been sitting in the silence and peace of the Swamp thoughtfully chewing some beluga caviar that his sister Honoria had recently sent him and suddenly, a stream of wanton noises had cut into the perfect silence of his solitude. Who would dare broadcast such licentious sounds, such intimate discourse? To end his choking spasm, he washed the caviar down his throat with some of Hawkeye's homemade gin.

"_Hawkeye!"_

"_Margaret!_" Pierce's voice called out, clear as crystal over the P.A., reaching his ears just as the card players in the mess tent were made aware of the two uninformed participants.

"Vulgar cretins," Winchester muttered, rolling his eyes. It seemed as if the P.A. involvement was unintended, unless Hawkeye Pierce and Margaret Houlihan were collectively that shameless. As much as Hunnicutt had been annoyed with Pierce's stunt in the morning, the mustached doctor simply wasn't Machiavellian enough to pull off a prank of this magnitude. Charles stood up and languidly strode over to his phonograph in the midst of the lovemaking sounds, beginning to sift through his collection of records with an unaffected air.

"_Hawkeye! Oh my God!"_

Rolling his eyes, Charles picked up the Tchaikovsky record containing Piano Concerto No. 1 in B Flat Minor, the song that had been oddly reminiscent of his relationship with Margaret Houlihan. He placed it into the phonograph and moved the stylus right past that first evocative movement, setting it down on the next movement of the piece, the _Andantino semplice – Prestissimo._ He allowed the sounds of the oboes and horns playing along with staccato piano in the key of D major to soak into his being.

As the lovers on the P.A. became progressively louder, Winchester turned the volume knob to its maximum capacity. My, did he have the ammunition to employ against Pierce, and my, was Margaret ever loud!

"Must you two leave nothing to the imagination?" Charles muttered in the empty tent. "And must you drown out the sweet strains of civilization?"

Suddenly he grinned, totally amused with himself, the sounds of Hawkeye and Margaret fading as his ego returned with full force along with the sound of approaching helicopters. He had contrived a rather marvelous rhyme, and couldn't stop grinning at his new found talent.

"This is true poetic justice," he murmured, as proud as ever. "It is you who has lost out, Margaret." Before he could move a muscle, the distinctive sound of simultaneous climaxes broadcast over the P.A. system. He felt himself shudder involuntarily at the passionate noises culminating in quivery sighs and moans.

The music continued in the background as he switched his lamp off and lie back on his mattress with fingers intertwined.

"On second thought… I may be wrong."

* * *

A knock at the door startled Hawkeye and Margaret enough to cause them to roll off Klinger's bed and fall to the floor. They'd just finished and she'd been beginning to brush the hair out of his eyes. Though this distraction was unexpected, it was welcomed by Hawkeye, lest Margaret return to her old habits.

"Klinger, is that you?" Hawkeye called out, hearing the approaching drone of helicopters as he replied. "Margaret's awfully busy right now."

"It's B.J.," Hunnicutt yelled back. "You left the—"

All of a sudden, B.J.'s voice was drowned out completely by the choppers.

"What'd you say?" Hawkeye asked, raising his voice as he yanked the sheet off of Klinger's bed and pulled it over himself. He could feel Margaret tugging on it as well from her position on the floor. "I can't hear you."

B.J. couldn't wait any longer. Soon the nurses and surgeons would be scrambling around in the building to prepare for the new casualties. The mustached doctor tentatively pushed the door open.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!" Hawkeye blurted, grabbing his pants off the floor and covering himself with them. Margaret took this opportunity to pull the sheet off of Hawkeye and to wrap them around her body.

"You turned the damn P.A. on, Hawkeye!" B.J. yelled through the partially open door, avoiding looking into the dark office. "The whole camp heard everything!"

Hawkeye and Margaret stared at each other with mouths agape.

"Oh my God," she murmured, clutching her forehead and shaking her head. "Not again."

"You've gotta be kidding me," Hawkeye told B.J.

"Now, why would I kid about a thing like that?" the mustached doctor replied.

"I'm sure he's lying," Hawkeye said, turning to Margaret. "He's just trying to get back at me for my pretending to be—uh, for something that happened this morning. That's what this is. You'll see."

With that, Hawkeye leapt up and strode over to Klinger's desk, seeing that the P.A. microphone was knocked over. Not only that, but it was on. Hissing with irritation, he switched it off and set it back up on the desk.

"Did you turn it on, Margaret?" he said, turning back to the blonde on the floor.

"What do you take me for?" she shot back. "Of course I didn't turn it on!"

"Well, how did it get turned on?" he muttered. "I'm sure we would've seen someone come in here—eh, probably not, actually."

"Wait," Margaret recalled. "Remember when this whole—thing started? You pushed me against the desk. Maybe I bumped into the microphone when you pushed me."

"Oh, so it's _my_ fault now," Hawkeye grumbled, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"I'm not saying that; I'm just saying that that's probably when it—"

"Would you two lay off each other?" B.J. interrupted. "I mean, geez, you evidently had mind-blowing sex, and less than five minutes after it's over, you're already at each other's throats? Tell me when this begins to make sense."

"I was at her throat during it too," Hawkeye remarked with a little smile, looking over at the incredibly red-faced Margaret, who was so mortified she didn't even know what to say. Hunnicutt ignored Hawkeye's comment.

"Well, as I'm sure you're both now aware, we've got incoming wounded. You guys better get to the O.R. before people start running around in here."

Margaret buried her face into the fabric of the sheet that she'd wrapped around her body.

"I can't do it. Not this soon."

"Come on, Margaret; we're supposed to be working together," Hawkeye urged, holding his hand out to her. "Hey, Beej, could you do us a favor and keep people from coming in here for a few minutes? We have to get dressed."

"Sure, buddy," B.J. replied. "But hurry out. Sounds like we're getting quite a few casualties in, so no encore until later, okay?"

At that, B.J. shut the door and left Hawkeye and Margaret in the dark office.

"We've been publicly humiliated," Margaret remarked to the dark-haired doctor. "Everyone heard us, Hawkeye. How in the hell am I going to face my nurses; can you tell me that? I'm sure Colonel Potter heard it as well, and Father Mulcahy. Oh, God…."

"You should be used to it by now," Hawkeye replied, a sparkle of mischief in his eyes as he shrugged.

"How dare you poke fun at me at a time like this?" she roared, her state of undress the only thing keeping her from slapping Hawkeye silly.

"If you'd rather, I can poke you with something much more fun," he retorted, winking at her.

Predictably, she rolled her eyes, which only seemed to widen the smile on Hawkeye's face. Strangely enough, Hawkeye was grateful to B.J. for interrupting them before Margaret could get overly romantic.

"They're going to be staring at us and laughing," she murmured. "Now there'll be a whole new generation calling me Hot Lips. Ugh…."

"I promise that that won't be the case," Hawkeye stated with a regal air. "Beej won't do it and I'll kill Winchester if he does it. So there you go."

"Wait—I thought you said you couldn't make me any promises," Margaret replied, intrigued by his wording.

"Right—I did say that," he said, shaking his head back and forth to physically dispel the thought. "Let's make it a wager then. I am so confident that you won't be called Hot Lips that if anyone so much as says that name aloud, you can—"

"No. Just forget it," she interrupted, shaking her head in turn. "No wagers. That's one thing I can say I've had my fill of."

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

**

* * *

**After an exhausting, stressful day of casualties, Margaret and Hawkeye ate dinner in the mess tent at a table with B.J. Hunnicutt, Charles Winchester, Corporal Klinger, and Father Mulcahy.

Upon sitting down, it was clear the Margaret had it out for several members of the group, and glared unabashedly at her coworkers.

"I don't work well when I'm being stared at," Margaret huffed to a startled Corporal Klinger and an amused Charles Winchester. "I can't concentrate in the O.R. when your eyes are burning through the back of my head."

"Well, it seems like you work well enough when you're being_ listened _to," Winchester muttered under his breath.

She frowned at him and he returned the glare with a satisfied little smirk.

"Is it just me, or is the meat actually edible tonight?" Hawkeye commented louder than necessary. "My stomach might actually be okay with digesting it." His comment fell on generally deaf ears, being as no one else at the table had picked up the mystery meat for dinner.

"Love will do that to you," B.J. replied with a shrug, giving his friend a nudge. "It makes everything seem better."

"I dunno," Hawkeye muttered in reply. "The edibility doesn't apply to the rest of dinner."

At that, he stuffed another bite of the meat into his mouth so that he didn't have to say anything more. Margaret glanced over to see Hawkeye's anticlimactic response and was instantly disappointed.

"I'll take your word for it, Hawkeye," Father Mulcahy commented, standing up. "I've always wanted to try real food."

When the camp chaplain returned with his tray, he'd already taken a bite of the meat and didn't look to be in any kind of physical pain. The entire group at the table stared up at him as he sat back down, juice dripping down his chin.

"You're right," Mulcahy said, looking at Hawkeye with a smile, "this actually is rather good."

"I told you," Hawkeye murmured, half under his breath. This disappointed Margaret, who'd hoped that it was love that had improved Hawkeye's outlook on mess tent food.

"I'd have to sample it to believe it," Winchester remarked, standing up. "We Winchesters have an epicurean taste that is not so easily fulfilled by your spam-on-a-shingle."

"Then why do you weigh at least fifty pounds more than I do?" Hawkeye commented. "There aren't enough truffles and caviar in the world to make up for that difference."

"Need you ask, Hawkeye?" B.J. joked. "It's his ego—not only does it lift him up, but it also weighs him down."

Winchester laughed sarcastically at the joke and headed for the buffet table. Upon returning, he sat down and tasted the meat while everyone watched him.

"It _is_ significantly more edible than standard mess tent fare," he murmured, after ensuring that no food remained in his mouth during his speech.

"Excuse me," Private Igor said, having quietly taken his place by the table without being noticed. He looked at the plates of Hawkeye, Father Mulcahy, and Major Winchester and spoke quietly. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, but it's regarding the meat tonight that Captain Pierce mentioned. Did I just hear you all say that it's good?"

"It's poisoned, isn't it?" Hawkeye said, slamming his fork down as he gazed up at the man. "That's why it tastes like real food. Damn. I should've known better."

"No, Sir, it was actually an accident that was caused by… earlier," he said, looking at the ground. "You know… earlier…."

"Earlier?" Hawkeye asked, confused. "How am I supposed to know what you were doing?"

"It wasn't what _I_ was doing," Igor began, eyeing Hawkeye and then Margaret. Margaret's jaw dropped in understanding but Hawkeye still looked puzzled.

Winchester grinned.

"How could you have already forgotten your short public service announcement on sex education?"

"Ha," Hawkeye muttered, "but nothing about it was short, Charles."

"Well, that's what I was talking about," Igor replied. "I guess what I'm saying is, that takes the credit for this meal."

Father Mulcahy gazed up at the private, disturbed by his revelation.

"Are you trying to tell me that you work best under—those conditions? That's troubling, my son."

"That's not what I was—"

"Now, if _Igor_ was to talk over the P.A., _all_ the parts of his speech would be private parts," B.J. joked, interrupting the private.

"Good one, Captain," Klinger remarked. At that, he turned to Hawkeye and Margaret. "Speaking of private parts, I'd tell you guys to disinfect my office, but even if you did agree to it, you'd probably just dirty it right back up again."

Winchester, Hawkeye, and B.J. all exchanged amused glances, which drove Margaret up the wall.

"Well, you don't have to worry about me making that same mistake again," Margaret blurted, standing up abruptly. "You've had the right idea all along, Father," she told the priest.

"What's that?" he replied, lifting his glasses to look up at her. "I'm not sure what you're referring to. Are you considering sisterhood?"

"I'm talking about your celibacy. From here on out, I'm not going to compromise my honor as a Major of the U.S. Army or as a woman."

At Margaret's remark, Hawkeye rolled his eyes in mild exasperation. Meanwhile, Charles sat up ramrod straight and gave her a precise salute.

"Let me be the first to salute your new endeavor—Hot Lips," Charles commented with a smug little grin, lowering his arm as Margaret's face turned a shade of red.

After the initial glare at Major Winchester for referring to her by that deplorable nickname, Margaret looked over at Hawkeye expectantly, remembering what he'd said earlier. She noticed immediately that Pierce was now staring at Winchester with mouth partially agape. Seconds passed by like minutes with not a word being said.

"Don't call her that," Hawkeye retorted, turning to face Winchester.

"Who are you to tell me what I can and can't call Major Houlihan?" Winchester retorted. "She is now Hot Lips Houlihan in my book. It does have a pleasant ring to it, does it not?"

"Didn't you hear what I said?" Hawkeye said, the volume of his voice slightly louder. "I don't want you calling her that."

Winchester was becoming amused by Hawkeye's random bout of anger. Margaret had to have put him up to this. It was amusing watching such a brazen misogynist transform into a staunch feminist, if only for a few minutes.

"Need I remind you, Pierce, that you yourself called her by that particular nickname."

"Were you not listening to what she said afterwards? The name's been retired."

"Hot Lips, Hot Lips, Hot Lips." Now Charles was grinning toothily. His smile didn't fade even when Hawkeye stood up.

"That's it, Charles. Every time you say 'Hot Lips' I'm breaking a record."

"What kind of record? Long jump? Or let me guess—the breast stroke. In actuality, you may have already broken that one today. I think I detected at least fifteen."

"_Your_ records, you goofball. You've said it five times so that makes five records."

Though Hawkeye was clearly not amused, Charles clapped his hands together gleefully.

"I see your remedial math classes are paying off splendidly, Pierce."

"Ha ha," Hawkeye retorted. Without saying another word, he stepped away from the table and strode quickly towards the door, pausing by the entrance with his hand on his chin as if deep in thought.

"Hmm…. What'll I break first?" he said. "Debussy? Or should I start chopping up Chopin? Wait—you have plenty of Tchaikovsky, so at least one of his albums will be Russian out of here. Ah, that reminds me; I should make a Liszt of which ones I'll break before I begin."

At that, Hunnicutt lost it completely, not even bothering to look over at Charles's reddened face as he laughed loudly.

"Don't you dare, Pierce," Charles growled, his voice competing with Hunnicutt's laughter. "And please, you are killing me with those awful puns, and not in a good way."

At Winchester's combative reply, Hawkeye could only shrug.

"Promise me right here and now that you won't call Major Houlihan that nickname again, and I'll sit back down."

"Ha, men and promises are like oil and water," Margaret muttered.

"What are you talking about?" Hawkeye replied, looking hurt. "What does it look like I'm doing now?"

"See, Hawkeye?" she began excitedly, glad that he'd responded like she'd hoped he would. "You _can_ keep a promise! I knew you could do it! That wasn't so bad, was it?"

This was a wonderful start; Margaret found herself smiling up at him dreamily, practically forgetting about the others sitting at the table. Hawkeye noticed this change in her composure and looked down at her, the faintest of grins now playing on his lips. He couldn't let this go too far. He shook a finger at her as he looked down at her knowingly, his grin ever-widening as he spoke.

"Don't push your luck... Hot Lips."

* * *

Fin

* * *

**Please leave me any and all feedback or comments you may have!**

**Hippiechick, GetOnTheIce, and Casey-your reviews really shaped this story! Big time! Thank you all so much for your kind and thoughtful reviews!  
**


End file.
